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ALLEN  BIITLEii 
D.  APPLLTON  &,Co.N:Y 


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LIBRARY 

OF   THK 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA. 

OIF"T  OF" 


Received  ^Llf^f-         .....  1900 

Accession  No .  o  /  0  ^ $      -    Class  No . 


TWO  MILLIONS. 


BY 


WILLIAM     ALLEN     BUTLER, 


AUTHOE  OF  'NOTHING  TO  WEAR. 


NEW    YORK: 
D.  APPLETON  &  CO.,  34G  &  348  BROADWAY. 

1858. 


ENTERED  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1858,  by 

WILLIAM  ALLEN  BUTLEE, 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States  for  tho 
Southern  District  of  New  York. 


T7 


10 


OF    YALE    COLLEGE, 

THIS  POEM, 

WRITTEN    AT    THEIR    REQUEST, 

N  D     DELIVERED     BEFOEE     THEM, 
JULY  28,  1858, 

IS        DEDICA-TED. 


4  FoolJ  said  my  Muse  to  me,  '  look  in  thy  heart 

and  write  ! ' 

So  sang  in  other  days  that  gentle  Knight, 
Gentlest  and  bravest,  in  undying  song, 
Like  his  own  temper,  sweet,  serene,  and  strong. 
''Look  in  thy  heart  and  write! '  such  was  the  word 
In  the  wide  woodlands,  through  the  shadows,  heard 
By  our  own  Household  Bard,  when  on  his  ear 
The  Voices  of  the  Night  fell  soft  and  clear. 
And  such  the  high  behest  which  comes  ofttimes 
To  the  true  Poet  of  all  years  and  climes, 


4  TWO      MILLIONS. 

The  Master  Minstrel,  from  whose  golden  thought 
The  perfect  types  of  human  song  are  wrought, 
To  whom  all  men  give  place,  and  meaner  things 
Sink  into  Sabbath  stillness  while  he  sings. 
Not  so  my  week-day  Muse ;  to  me  she  cries, 
Look  through  the  world  which  all  about  you  lies, 
The  noisy  town,  its  common,  daily  life, 
Flushed  with  coarse  passions,  hot  with  selfish  strife, 
The  crowded  street,  the  dens  of  Vice  and  Want, 
The  gilded  halls  where  Pride  and  Fashion  flaunt, 
And  from  their  mingled  threads,  the  grave,  the 

gay, 

Weave,  if  you  will,  the  Epic  of  To-Day. 

"  Forego,"  she  cries,  "  the  boyish  dream  of  Fame, 

Speak  as  you  see,  careless  of  praise  or  blame. 

Draw  at  a  venture  ;  it  may  be,  the  point 

Of  your  chance  shaft  shall  pierce  a  yielding  joint 

In  the  stout  harness  of  some  veteran  wrong, 

Or  full  armed  folly,  in  its  vantage  strong. 

Let  but  the  word  be  honest  and  sincere, 

For  him  alone  whose  inner  sight  is  clear 


TWO      MILLIONS. 

From  mist,  of  passion  or  of  selfish  fear, 
The  Truth,  whiterobed,  shall,  like  a  Vestal,  wait 
Beside  the  shrine  and  sacred  fires  of  Fate, 
Whose  touch  ethereal  gives  the  eye  to  see 
Things  as  they  are,  not  as  they  seem  to  be ! " 


I. 


FIKKIN  was  worth  Two  MILLIONS  ;  his  Inventory, 

Of  Real  and  Personal,  told  the  pleasing  story ; 

Two  solid  Millions,  everybody  said  it, 

Was  not  his  name  a  luminous  orb  of  credit  ? 

Was  not  his  praise  in  every  city  Bank  ? 

Was  he  not  foremost  in  the  foremost  rank 

Of  MERCHANT  PKINCES,  that  invincible  host, 

The  Empire  City's  proud,  imperial  boast, 

Her  veteran  guard,  whose  brilliant  cash  advances, 

Not  with  fixed  bayonets  and  bristling  lances, 

But  with  sharp  bargains  and  keen  speculations, 


S  TWO      MILLIONS 

Carry  her  eagles  to  remotest  nations ; 
Bolder  than  ever  Templars  or  Crusaders, 
They  sweep  the  distant  seas,  these  daring  Traders, 
Than  fabled  Argonauts,  or  classic  Caesars, 
They  grasp  the    World,   these    modern   Golden 
Fleecers ! 

Think  not,  in  this  last  verse,  my  Muse  evinces 
The  slightest  disrespect  to  Merchant  Princes ; 
There  are  whose  hearts  are  large  and  frank  and 

loyal, 

Whose  human  nature,  like  their  wealth,  is  royal ; 
In  whose  free  hands  the  glittering,  dangerous  dust 
Is  not  mere  money,  but  a  sacred  trust ; 
Long  may  we  keep  their  true,  untainted  line, 
Such  men  are  princes  by  a  right  divine. 
Such  was  not  Firkin ;  in  his  principality, 
Worse  than  high  treason  was  all  liberality, 

ray  of  bounty,  with  unselfish  cheer, 
rew  its  bright  beam  across  that  dark  frontier, 
Where  every  friendly  grace  of  heart  or  hand 


TWO      MILLIONS.  9 

Was  seized  and  forfeited  as  contraband. 
You  read  it  in  his  eye,  dull,  dark,  and  stern, 
Which   clutched  the  light,  but  grudged  a  kind 

return, 

In  genial  glances,  through  the  open  day, 
And  with  a  shrewd  suspicion  turned  away. 
His  hard,  square  features,  like  an  iron  safe, 
Locked  in  his  thoughts ;  no  chance,  unnoted  waif 
Of  fugitive  feeling,  unawares  betrayed 
The  inner  man,  or  mental  stock  in  trade. 
The  portly  figure,  with  its  solvent  air, 
Proclaimed  to  all  the  world  the  Millionnaire, 
His  purse  and  person  both  at  fullest  length, 
And  even  the  higher  law  which  he  obeyed, 
With  all  his  heart  and  soul  and  mind  and  strength, 
To  love  his  maker,  for  he  was  SELF-MADE  ! 
Self-made,  self-trained,  self-willed,  self-satisfied, 
He  was,  himself,  his  daily  boast  and  pride, 
His  wealth  was  all  his  own  ;  had  he  not  won  it 
With  his  own  cunning  skill?   There  shone  upon  it 
No  grateful  memories  of  another's  toil, 


10  TWO      MILLIONS. 

No  flowers  of  friendship  graced  its  sandy  soil, 
No  ties  ancestral  linked  it  with  the  past, 
As  in  his  hard,  close  hands  he  held  it  fast. 

I  cannot  trace  the  Firkin  genealogy, 
The  Family  Tree  bore  such  a  close  analogy 
To  those  rare  Tropic  plants  which  Nature  shoots 
Into  mid-air  without  the  aid  of  roots, 
Whose  swelling  tumors,  as  they  spread  and  mount, 
Grow  rank  and  flourish  on  their  own  account ; 
Or    the    queer    hints    which    scandal    whispered 

since 

He  grew  to  wealth,  about  our  Merchant  Prince, 
Or  make  with  fact  what  people  said  agree 
Touching  his  origin  and  pedigree, 
Or  early  efforts  in  the  packing-line, 
In  which,  like  Venus,  he  had  sprung  from  brine ! 
Wise  is  the  child,  they  say,  who  knows  his  father, 
A  musty  proverb,  as  he  thought,  for,  rather, 
Wiser  for  him  if  he  could  but  ignore  him, 
And  all  the  long,  low  line  that  went  before  him. 


TWO      MILLIONS.  11 

Now  Firkin  could  not  bear  to  be  in  debt 
To  anybody,  even  for  existence, 
And  on  the  social  ladder  where  he  set 
His  foot,  disdained  an  ancestor's  assistance. 
Not  their  dry  bones,  but  his  successful  chase 
Of  solid  fortune,  was  his  ground  of  title, 
He  was  the  net  proceeds  of  all  his  race, 
And  his  Two  Millions  were  his  just  requital, 
For  we  must  guage  the  worth  of  human  adults, 
As  of  mess  pork,  by  total  cash  results. 
Therefore  it  quite  confounded  and  incensed  him, 
To  think  the  world  should  point  a  sneer  against 

him 

Upon  the  score  of  birth  or  lineage  ; 
It  was  unjust  to  linger  on  the  page, 
And,  in  the  Ledgers  of  old  family  pride, 
Reckon  the  items  on  the  debit  side ; 
Time's  rapid  finger  should  the  line  descend 
And  foot  the  credit  at  the  final  end. 
So,  as  to  all  the  space  'twixt  Noah's  ark 
And  his  own  life,  the  prudent  Muse  keeps  dark, 


12  TWO      MILLIONS. 

The  interval  perfumed  by  that  aroma, 
Which  wraps  with  mystery  the  birth  of  Homer, 
Or  breathes  through  History  when  she  describes 
Those  trackless  fugitives,  the  lost  Ten  Tribes ! 

He  had  a  coat  of  arms,  a  very  grand  one, 
Bran-new  besides,  and  not  a  second-hand  one ; 
A  coat  of  many  colors  and  devices, 
One  of  the  kind  which  bring  the  highest  prices, 
Bought  at  a  Heraldry  slop-shop,  where  they  take 
One's  measure  for  such  coats  of  every  make, 
And  give  the  pick  of  all  the  crests  and  quarterings 
Of  ancient  Barons,  famous  for  their  slaughterings, 
And  modern  Dukes,  famous — for  nothing  at  all, 
With  points  and  bars  and  bearings,  great  and  small, 
Lions  and  unicorns,  and  beasts  with  wings, 
And  all  the  sinister  bends  of  all  the  Kings. 
To  pay  his  way,  he  thought,  he  scarce  could  miss, 
Into  the  best  Society,  with  this 
Depreciated  scrip  of  sham  gentility ; 
And,  really,  the  artist  showed  a  great  facility 


TWO      MILLIONS.  13 

In  cleverly  managing  to  put  as  much  on, 
As  could  be  crowded  upon  one  escutcheon ; 
Instead  of  flaming  shield,  with  fancy  pattern, 
And  golden  gules,  bright  as  the  rings  of  Saturn, 
He  chose  a  Silver  Dollar,  freshly  minted, 
And  with  bold  touches  and  designs  unstinted, 
Traced  with  all  manner  of  mystical  freemasonry, 
Made  it  a  rampant,  stylish  bit  of  blazonry. 
It  was  a  sort  of  circular  allegory 
Of  the  Two  Millions  and  their  owner's  glory. 
This  suited  Firkin  better  than  progenitors, 
In  longest  line  of  Presidents  or  Senators  ; 
He  had  it  painted  on  his  carriage  doors, 
Stamped  on  his  spoons,  and  inlaid  in  his  floors ; 
It  shone,  resplendent,  on  each  piece  of  china ; 
No  work  of  art,  he  fancied,  could  be  finer, 
When  he  beheld  its  lines,  so  bright  and  wavy, 
Gleam  in  the  soup  and  glimmer  through  the  gravy ! 
Pleased  as  a  child  with  every  separate  view, 
Or  a  New  Zealander  with  a  fresh  tattoo ! 


14  TWO      MILLIONS. 

His  Creed  was  simple  as  a  Creed  could  be, 
Firkin  believed  in  things  that  he  could  see ; 
Things  that  were  palpable  to  sight  and  touch, 
That  he  could  measure  by  the  test 4  how  much,1 
And  grasp  securely  in  his  mental  clutch. 
He  had  a  lively  faith  in  the  Five  Senses, 
They  never  cheated  him  with  false  pretences, 
Nor  put  him  off  to  doubtful  evidences ; 
These  and  his  mother  wit  were  all  his  light — 
What  could  be  safer  than  to  walk  by  sight  ? 
"  He  had  been  young,  and  now  was  old,"  he  said, 
"  But  never  had  he  seen  the  self-made  man 
Forsaken,  nor  his  children  begging  bread, 
Provided  they  pursued  their  father's  plan, 
All  through  their  lives,  as  he  himself  had  done, 
And  kept  a  sharp  lookout  for  Number  One !  " 
A  golden  rule,  Firkin  had  early  learned, 
And  every  hour  to  good  advantage  turned  ; 
This,  and  such  precious  maxims  as  abounded 
In  that  pure  word  of  riches,  wisdom,  health, 
According  to  Poor  Richard,  as  expounded 


TWO      MILLIONS.  15 

By  Doctor  Franklin,  in  his  Way  to  Wealth, 
Served  him  for  law  and  gospel  and  tradition, 
And  he  himself  their  luminous  exposition. 
These  were  the  fiscal  lights,  in  whose  clear  ray 
He  could  divide  the  Universe,  straightway, 
Into  the  things  that  would  and  wouldn't  pay. 
By  these  he  steered  through  all  the  straits  of  trade, 
Where  something  must  be  risked,  or  nothing  made ; 
These  oft  through  Wall  street,  with  its  reefs  and 

rocks, 

And  phantom  ventures,  launched  from  fancy  stocks, 
Had  brought  him  safe  from  many  a  hazard  rash, 
His  compass— caution,  and  his  pole-star — cash. 
And  now,  grown  rich,  these  guided  him,  at  will, 
In  the  green  pastures,  by  the  waters  still, 
Of  safe  investment,  whether  in  real  estate, 
At  points  not  likely  to  depreciate, 
Or  bond  and  mortgage,  or,  his  greater  favorite, 
Because  it  had  a  spice  of  risk  to  flavor  it, 
The  quiet  purchase,  at  the  market  rate, 
Of  first  class  paper,  such  as  brokers  bait 


16  TWO      MILLIONS. 

Their  largest  hooks  with,  when  they  lie  in  wait, 
With  every  tempting  minnow,  fly  and  snare, 
For  that  shy  fish,  the  speckled  Millionnaire 
Who  loves  the  shade,  but,  if  that  way  it  floats, 
Likes  a  sly  nibble  at  a  batch  of  notes; 
Firkin,  shrewd  fellow,  with  his  sharpened  sight, 
Knew  when  precisely,  and  when  not,  to  bite ; 
Lay  in  the  dark,  with  his  usurious  eye, 
Until  some  choice  endorser  happened  by, 
Or  plump  acceptor,  and  then  took  the  fly. 
At  this  nice  sport,  so  fatal  to  so  many, 
It  was  his  boast,  he  never  lost  a  penny, 
And  the  old  boy,  the  brokers  would  repeat, 
Was  quite  the  keenest  shaver  in  the  street. 
Thus  active  practice  kept  his  faith  alive, 
Faith  in  himself  and  in  the  senses  five, 
The  almighty  Dollar,  and  its  powers  incessant, 
In  ready  money  and  a  paying  Present ; 
However  fair,  he  trusted  no  futurity 
Which  could  not  give  collateral  security. 
Some  men,  he  knew,  believed,  at  least  professed, 


TWO      MILLIONS.  17 

Faith  in  hereafters,  which  they  dimly  guessed  ; 
The  substance,  he  preferred,  of  things  possessed ! 

And  yet,  he  seemed  devout ;  without  much  search, 
You  might  have  found,  on  any  Sunday  morning, 
His  visible  coach,  outside  the  visible  church, 
With  green  and  gold  its  sacred  front  adorn  ing. 
A  gorgeous  coachman,   somewhat    flushed    with 

sherry, 

A  footman,  portly  with  perpetual  dinners, 
Waited,  while  Firkin  in  the  sanctuary, 
With  many  other  '  miserable  sinners/ 
Cushioned  the  carnal  man  in  drowsy  pews, 
Dozed  over  gilt-edged   rubric,  prayer   and   psal 
ter, 

Rose  with  the  music,  looked  with  liberal  views, 
On  prima  donnas,  never  known  to  falter, 
In  chant  or  solo,  hymn,  or  anthem  splendid, 
And  still  enchanting  when  the  chant  was  ended ; 
Then  sat  or  knelt,  grave  as  the  altar  bronzes, 
And  went  through  all  the  usual  responses. 


18  TWO      MILLIONS. 

Those  solemn  prayers,  those  litanies  sublime, 
The  ancient  Church  first  taught  the  lips  of  Time, 
Thenceforth  to  sound  forever — as  when  first, 
Flooded  with  light,  the  lips  of  Memnon  burst 
From  their  cold  stillness,  and  rejoicing,  gave, 
Back  to  the  flood  of  Day,  its  tide  upborne 
Of  rarest  harmony,  wave  answering  wave, 
Deep  calling  unto  deep,  Music  to  Morn ! 
Those  lofty  chants,  first  echoed  under  domes 
Of  starry  midnight,  or  in  catacombs 
Where,  by  rude  altars  and  sepulchral  tombs, 
Deep  in  the  rocky  earth,  the  vestal  choirs 
Rehearsed  their  music  for  the  martyr  fires ; 
Now  swelled  from  lips  of  people  or  of  priest, 
To  fall  on  Firkin's  ear  without  the  least 
Responsive  utterance,  or  the  faintest  notion 
That  they  had  any  reference  to  devotion. 
He  liked  the  service,  but,  I  grieve  to  state, 
If  it  had  been  instead  a  service  of  plate, 
He  could  have  given  a  better  estimate 
Of  its  real  value,  for  in  truth  our  hero, 


TWO      MILLIONS.  19 

As  to  religious  feeling  stood  at  zero. 

And  had  it  chanced  the  universal  Church, 

In  solid  phalanx,  without  break  or  schism, 

Had,  on  a  sudden,  taken  a  backward  lurch, 

Two  thousand  years  or  more,  to  Judaism, 

Or  from  the  Christian  plunged  into  the  Pagan, 

And  on  its  altars  set  up  Jove  or  Dagon, 

Firkin  would  still  have  worshipped  with  the  crowd, 

And  at  the  newest  shrine  devoutly  bowed, 

Still  offered  up  his  weekly  stint  of  praise, 

In  heathen  darkness  or  the  gospel's  blaze, 

With  incense,  or  burnt  offerings,  or  libations, 

Alike  unconscious  of  the  innovations, 

Save  that  he  might,  perhaps,  in  Wall  street  phrase, 

Have  noticed  a  slight  change  in  the  quotations ! 

Noticed,  but  heeded  not,  he  could  not  give 

His  time  to  liturgies,  nor  even  live 

In  all  things  like  a  good  conservative, 

Of  the  true  modern  stamp,  whose  orthodoxy 

Does  good  through  agents  and  serves  God  by  proxy ! 

His  view  was  this — religion  he  regarded 


20  TWO      MILLIONS. 

An  institution  not  to  be  discarded, 

Of  no  great  use  in  Time,  yet  who  shall  say 

But  some  new  sphere  may  bring  it  into  play  ? 

Therefore  he  gave  it  half  a  day  in  seven, 

'Twaswell  to  keep  on  speaking  terms  with  Heaven. 

Let  the  priests  wrangle,  in  their  long  debates, 

Of  doctrines,  dogmas,  destinies  and  dates, 

He  cared  for  none  of  these — nothing  to  him 

Their  dull  disputes  and  superstitions  dim, 

They  neither  charmed  his  sense  nor  could  they 

shock  it, 

They  never  put  a  dollar  in  his  pocket ; 
(And  very  rarely  took  a  dollar  out, 
As  all  the  Charities  can  vouch,  no  doubt ;) 
He  never  cared  to  vex  himself  about  them, 
He  got  along  so  very  well  without  them ; 
From  Genesis  straight  on  to  Revelations, 
He  could  dispense  with  all  the  Dispensations ! 

You  may  imagine  that  the  philanthropic 
Was  not  with  him  a  very  favorite  topic ; 


TWO      MILLIONS.  21 

One  test  he  meted  to  the  Sons  of  Time, 

Success  was  virtue,  Poverty  was  crime. 

He  who  had  failed  hi  Life's  scrub  race  to  win, 

Was  justly  punished  for  his  mortal  sin, 

That  deadliest  style  of  human  misbehaving, 

The  leaving  undone  of  getting  and  of  saving ; 

Wealth  was  man's  normal  state,  its  loss  because 

The  losers  violated  Nature's  laws, 

And  chose  to  live  their  vicious,  penniless  lives, 

In  spite  of  ants  and  beavers  and  bee-hives, 

And  other  bright  examples,  by  all  which 

She  showed  them  clearly  how  they  might  grow  rich. 

Therefore,  it  was  as  plain  as  Trinity  steeple, 

That  every  scheme  for  aiding  indigent  people 

Was  with  the  worst  of  vices  a  connivance ; 

He  turned  with  horror  from  the  base  contrivance. 

This  was  his  only  theory  to  repress 

The  social  evils,  and  their  wrongs  redress, 

Save  that  in  current  cases  of  distress, 

From  paupers,  as  from  pestilence,  he  shrank, 

Upon  the  virtuous  notion  that  "  they  drank  !  " 


22  TWO      MILLIONS. 

The  newest  way  to  christianize  barbarity, 
And  whip  in  Temperance  as  a  foe  to  Charity ! 

His  politics  took  on  the  Neutral  tints, 
A  safe  complexion  for  a  Merchant  Prince, 
Who  valued  Government  for  its  protection 
To  wealth  and  capital  against  insurrection. 
He  thought  that  legislation  should  be  planned, 
And  the  great  Ship  of  State  equipped  and  manned, 
Solely  with  reference  to  the  property  owners, 
Those  cabin  passengers,  our  American  Peerage, 
While  you  and  I,  and  other  luckless  Jonahs, 
Who  work  the  ship,  or  suffer  in  the  steerage, 
He  reckoned  dangerous  chaps  who  raised  the  gales 
Which  roared  and  rattled  through  the  spars  and 

sails. 

As  for  the  rest,  his  hate  was  warm  and  hearty, 
Against  all  politicians  and  each  party. 
No  club  or  council  held  him  in  communion ; 
No  doubtful  canvass  lured  him  into  bets ; 
He  never  even  helped  to  save  the  Union, 


TWO      MILLIONS.  23 

Or  to  pay  off  our  greatest  Statesman's  debts ; 
Those  fields  of  Golden  Cloth,  on  which,  'tis  said, 
The  Wall-street  heroes  very  often  bled ! 

Firkin  was  childless.     In  his  earlier  life, 
He  had  possessed  that  useful  thing,  a  wife, 
But  failing  to  keep  pace  with  his  swift  stride, 
In  the  hot  dash  at  fortune,  by  his  side, 
Long  since  she  faltered,  faded,  drooped,  and  died. 
He  kept  his  vow  to  cherish  and  to  love  her, 
By  building  a  great  granite  tomb  above  her, 
Which  to  the  world  his  wedded  virtues  told, 
Just  like  them  too,  stiff,  hollow,  and  stone  cold  ! 
She  never  knew  a  mother's  tender  duty, 
Or  else,  perchance,  its   pure,  fresh  warmth   and 

beauty 

Her  wasted  heart  with  a  new  glow  had  fired, 
And  with  a  sacred  strength  her  life  inspired ; 
But,  in  her  worse  than  widowhood,  exiled, 
Had  taken  to  her  heart  an  orphan  child, 
A  daughter  by  adoption,  upon  whom, 

After  his  spouse  lay  shrined  within  her  tomb, 
2 


24  TWO      MILLIONS. 

Firkin  himself  complacently  had  glanced, 
And,  step  by  step,  had  cautiously  advanced, 
Until  she  ruled  his  household ;  for  his  keen, 
Sagacious  foresight,  in  the  girl,  had  seen 
A  quick,  bright  spirit,  fitted  for  command, 
And,  for  his  own  convenience,  he  had  planned 
That  he  would  be  her  guardian  and  protector, 
Till  he  could  marry  her  to  some  Bank  Director. 

She  was  a  fair  New  England  maiden,  born, 
Not  where  broad  fields  of  yellow  wheat  and  corn, 
Through  sunlit  valleys,  wave  and  gaily  tinge 
The  quiet  homesteads  with  their  golden  fringe, 
While  Nature  blends  their  warm  and  genial  flush 
In  girlhood's  budding  glow  and  virgin  blush ; 
Nor  on  the  hill-sides  of  the  distant  North, 
Where,  from  the  unfenced  forests  gushing  forth, 
O'er  rocky  beds,  sweep  the  swift  mountain  streams, 
Whose  sparkling  torrent,  as  it  leaps  and  gleams, 
Is  kindred  to  the  keener  flash  that  beams 
From  laughing  eyes  on  pure  unsullied  faces, 
While,  like  the  Naiads,  crowned  with  fabled  graces, 


TWO      MILLIONS. 


25 


They  haunt  and  gladden  those  dark  Maple  shades, 
Our  fairer   wood-nymphs,   the    Green    Mountain 

maids ! 

But  on  the  Eastern  shore,  where  the  waves  break 
On  rocky  headlands,  and  the  night  winds  wake 
The  mournful  echoes  of  the  forest  pines, 
Which  stretch  along  the  coast  their  dreary  lines ; 
And  the  sea-breezes,  as  they  come  and  go, 
On  beauty's  cheek  have  left  a  deeper  glow, 
And  the  eye  kindles  like  some  far  off  ship, 
Struck  with  a  sudden  sunbeam,  and  the  lip 
Wears  the  sad  smile  of  those  whose  calmer  moods 
Are  nursed  by  Ocean  sands  and  solitudes  ! 

Such  was  this  RACHEL  ;  and  her  nature  kept 
Part  of  its  early  grace  and  seaside  health, 
In  the  spoiled  city  ;  in  her  soul  it  slept 
And  woke,  sometimes  half  conscious,  half  by  stealth, 
In  sudden  pauses,  its  calm  undertone 
Heard  by  no  other  ear,  scarce  by  her  own, 
Nerving  the  virtue  which  did  not  forsake  her, 


26  TWO      MILLIONS. 

But  kept  its  native  beauty,  fresh  and  green, 
In  spite  of  STEWART'S  and  a  French  dressmaker, 
And  not  put  on  and  off,  like  crinoline — 
Virtue,  which  drew  its   light    and  strength  and 

love, 

And  sense  of  beauty,  from  a  source  above 
The  level  of  the  mirror,  or  the  date 
Of  the  last  mode,  or  newest  fashion  plate. 
Firkin  himself  was  puzzled  to  understand 
If  he  or  she  had  got  the  upper  hand, 
In  the  incessant  skirmish  and  sword-play 
Their  spirits  waged  together  for  the  sway 
Over  each  other's  will ;  for  in  the  sphere, 
Where  woman's  sense  and  wit   are    strong  and 

clear, 

In  the  wide  circuit  of  the  heart's  dominions, 
She  had,  and  claimed,  and  kept,  her  own  opinions, 
Till  he  began  to  hate  her,  and,  one  day, 
When  she  had  given  her  heart  and  hand  away, 
Against  his  oft  repeated,  stern  denial, 
And  brought  his  feeling  to  the  final  trial, 


TWO      MILLIONS.  2^ 

He  threw  her  off,  as  lightly  as  the  flower 
Which  in  his  button-hole  had  bloomed  an  hour, 
Placed  by  her  hand,  perhaps,  on  some  May  morn 
ing  ; 

The  blow  was  struck  without  a  moment's  warning, 
No  present  pity ;  for  the  past  no  thanks ; 
And  quite  forgetting  all  that  bland  urbanity, 
Which  so  distinguished  him  in  down-town  Banks, 
With  its  descent  he  mingled  such  profanity, 
As  suited  rather,  so  my  Muse  just  hints, 
A  Prince  of  Darkness,  than  a  Merchant  Prince  ! 

He  banished  her,  and  then,  in  purest  spite, 
And  to  shut  out  forgiveness,  the  same  night, 
Wrote  to  his  native  town  for  half  a  score 
Of  distant  relatives  to  fill  her  place  ; 
They  came,  post  haste,  the  invited  ones  and  more, 
A  sudden  invasion  of  the  Firkin  race, 
Thrifty  and  sly  to  watch  and  lie  in  wait, 
And  peep  and  pry  around  his  great  estate. 
To  lay  their  plans  and  stratagems  and  traps, 


28  TWO      MILLIONS. 

And  nurse,  with  hope,  each  vagrant,  chance  "  per 
haps"  ! 

They  felt  his  pulse  when  he  was  sound  asleep, 
Wondered  how  long  the  vital  spark  would  keep, 
And  calculated  by  the  Insurance  Tables3 
Those  cunningly  devised  financial  fables, 
With  long  divisions,  addings,  and  subtraction, 
The  value  of  his  life,  down  to  a  fraction. 
This  sort  of  ante-mortem  examination 
Would  have  annoyed  its  subject,  without  doubt, 
If  ever  by  word,  or  act,  or  penetration, 
Sooner  or  later,  he  had  found  them  out ; 
But  he  dreamed  not  a  soul  within  his  portal 
Harbored  the  thought  that  he  was  not  immortal, 
At  least  if  so  he  pleased ;  with  equal  sense 
They  might  have  doubted  his  omnipotence  ! 

Rachel  was  married,  and,  to  tell  the  truth, 
It  was  a  foolish  match,  for  Love  and  Youth, 
In  forming  their  copartnerships  are  rash, 
Unless  they  have  that  special  partner,  Cash ! 


TWO      MILLIONS.  29 

Love  brought  her  grace  and  beauty  as  her  dower, 
And  Youth  his  lofty  hopes  and  dreams  of  power, 
But  on  the  wedding-day,  ere  that  rapt  hour 
Of  plighted  vows,  had  grown  a  moment  older, 
The  Husband  tapped  the  Lover  on  the  shoulder, 
Like  a  Detective,  with  the  frowning  threat 
Of  present  want  of  means  and  future  debt. 
For  though  his  aims   were  high,  and  pure  and 

sunny, 

He  had  no  faculty  for  making  money, 
That  pocket  compass  by  which  Dulness  steers 
Its  steady  course  to  wealth  through  all  the  years, 
While  Genius,  gazing  at  the  stars,  is  tost 
On  trackless  billows,  founders,  and  is  lost. 
We  sometimes  ask,  why  is  it,  Nature  pours 
Into  such  leaden  caskets  such  rich  stores, 
And  in  our  wisdom  blame  and  criticise  her ; 
We  may  be  wise,  but  Nature  is  much  wiser, 
She,  in  the  coarser,  heavier,  baser  mould 
Of  human  character,  runs  her  molten  gold, 
While  higher  spirits  for  herself  she  chooses, 
And  shapes  and  fashions  to  her  finer  uses ! 


30  TWO      MILLIONS. 

But  Rachel's  husband,  for  his  purse,  alas ! 
"Was  one  of  that  fine,  brilliant,  useless  class, 
The  men  of  genius ;  in  some  luckier  sphere, 
Where  every  body  should  possess  a  clear, 
Net  income  of,  at  least,  ten  thousand  a  year, 
He  might  have  been  an  ornament  to  society  ; 
He  was  resplendent  with  that  rare  variety 
Of  tastes  and  faculties  and  mental  gifts, 
Which,  like  the  rapid  eagle  pinion,  lifts 
The  soul  sublimely  through  the  empyrean, 
Where  choirs  of  beauty  chant  their  loftiest  pa?an ; 
But  on  descending,  hungry,  from  those  upper 
Regions  of  song,  goes  starving  for  a  supper. 
He  was  a  master  of  the  theoretical, 
The  high-ideal,  and  the  pure  aesthetical, 
The  imaginary,  mystic,  and  didactical, 
In  short,  of  every  thing,  except  the  practical. 
His  aims  were  glorious  and  his  thoughts  intense, 
He  wanted  nothing,  except  common  sense ; 
Could  plan    new  worlds  without  the  least  mis 
giving, 
But  in  this  planet  couldn't  make  a  living. 


TWO      MILLIONS.  31 

The  splendid  purposes  and  lofty  schemes, 
In  which  he  wasted  life  with  golden  dreams, 
Might,  in  Utopia,  have  made  him  Lord 
Of  the  ascendant,  but  they  paid  no  board, 
Washing,  or  lodging  in  the  Fifteenth  Ward. 
He  tried  the  various  callings  and  professions 
By  which  men  get  their  honors  and  possessions, 
But  all  their  substance  his  weak  grasp  eluded, 
And  still  he  stood,  despondent  and  deluded, 
Upon  the  brink  of  Fortune,  while  her  tide 
Ebbed  fast  away,  as  there,  in  aimless  pride, 
He  lingered,  musing,  to  his  doubts  a  slave  ; 
While  others  boldy  dashed  into  the  wave, 
Dived  through  the  breakers    with  their  frantic 

whirl, 
And  through  the  rocks  and  quicksands  grasped  the 

pearl. 

He  might  have  saved  a  moderate  patrimony, 
(Sufficient  even  after  matrimony,) 
But,  like  all  men  of  vivid  imagination, 

He  had  a  lingering  love  of  speculation ; 
2* 


32  TWO      MILLIONS. 

A  fancy  for  those  airy,  brilliant  bubbles, 
I3y  which  the  wealth  of  Wall  Street  daily  doubles  ; 
A  fatal  fondness  for  those  works  of  art, 
Which,  by  the  thousand,  into  being  start, 
With  their  fine  lines  and  delicate  vignettes, 
.Putting  the  very  best  face  upon  the  debts 
Of  Corporate  bodies,  who,  as  we  all  know, 
Thrive  for  the  most  part  upon  what  they  owe ! 
There  was  no  scheme,  however  visionary, 
In  which  he  could  not  be  induced  to  bury 
A  little  money  and  much  expectation ; 
If  there  had  been  a  Building  Association 
For  putting  up  and  selling  Chateaux  in  Spain, 
He  had  subscribed  at  once ;  and  when,  in  vain, 
Subscription  on  subscription  had  been  heaped, 
Share  after  share  of  stock,  and  nothing  reaped, 
He  chanced  one  morning  in  the  Times  to  see 
The  circular  of  the  GOLD  SWAMP  COMPANY, 
Of  which  the  money  articles  all  said, 
It  was  a  certain  project ;  for  its  head 
Was  Firkin,  foremost  among  Millionnaires, 
Who  had  just  taken  twenty  thousand  shares ; 


TWO      MILLIONS.  33 

"  Here,"  cried  our  unsuccessful  friend,  "  at  least, 
Success  is  sure  as  daylight  in  the  east, 
Free  from  all  chances,  doubts,  or  cruel  risks ; 
There  must  be  golden  harvests,  and  the  disks, 
Innumerable,  of  dollars,  on  the  horizon 
Of  any  scheme  Firkin  has  fixed  his  eyes  on !  " 
So  he  bought  in,  invested  all  he  had, 
And  as  the  shares  soon  trebled  and  quadrupled, 
With  the  hot  fever  of  success  run  mad, 
He  lost  his  mental  equipoise,  nor  scrupled 
To  borrow  where  he  could,  and  still  to  buy, 
For  fact  was  fact,  and  figures  could  not  lie. 
Two  months  the  bubble  glittered,  then,  one  morn 
ing, 

Grew  pale,  and  burst,  without  a  moment's  warn 
ing. 

A  grand  catastrophe  !     The  great  Gold  Swamp, 
Inaugurated  with  such  pride  and  pomp, 
Only  six  weeks  before,  by  an  Excursion, 
Of  which  we  all  perused  the  pleasing  version, 
In  all  the  papers ;  graced  by  two  ex-Presidents, 
And  all  the  city's  most  distinguished  residents ; 


34  TWO      MILLIONS. 

A  splendid  dinner,  at  which  General  Diddle 

Headed  the  board,  (a  model  in  the  middle, 

Of  the  Gold  Swamp  and  neighboring  morasses, 

Splendidly  done  in  sugar  and  molasses), 

Supported  by  a  score  of  Peter  Funks, 

Of  the  mock  Mining  stamp,  who  deal  in  chunks 

Of  confidence  ores  and  metals,  as  examples, 

And  sell  the  bowels  of  the  earth  by  samples  ! 

A  brilliant  festival,  and  when,  quite  late, 

The  Engineer,  Twobottles,  rose  to  state, 

The  Swamp  was  yielding  at  the  fabulous  rate 

Of  Fifty  Millions  monthly,  the  whole  table 

With  cheers  and  tigers  was  a  perfect  Babel. 

The  Swamp,  I  say,  though  dressed  in  such  bright 

raiment 

Of  hope  and  promise,  failed,  suspended  payment, 
Gave  up  its  golden  issues,  and  the  news, 
Which  served  a  day  the  city  to  amuse, 
Was  soon  abroad,  that  never,  for  one  minute, 
Had  it  contained  a  pennyweight  of  gold, 
Save  what  had  slyly  been  deposited  in  it, 
By  a  smart  brace  of  brokers,  keen  and  bold, 


TWO      MILLIONS.  35 

For  a  new  Fancy,  and  some  plump  amounts 
With  which  to  fatten  their  slim  Bank  accounts. 
Firkin,  the  rumor  also  got  about, 
With  his  unerring  prudence,  had  sold  out, 
The  day  of  the  Excursion,  when  the  shares 
Touched  at  the  highest  figure ;  and  the  affairs 
Taking  soon  after  a  dubious  situation, 
He,  with  a  burst  of  virtuous  indignation, 
Resigned  at  once  the  Presidential  station ! 

This  was  the  final  blow.     The  poor  stockholder, 
Stunned  by  the  crash,  which  even  on  a  bolder, 
Less    sensitive   nature,  had   fallen  with  crushing 

weight, 

Struggled  no  longer  with  his  adverse  fate. 
Two  years  of  light  and  shade  had  quickly  flown, 
Since  he  and  Rachel  stood  within  the  zone 
Of  wedded  life,  and,  although  overcast 
By  frowning  fortunes,  still,  through  all  their  Past, 
Such  golden  memories  flashed,  as  when  the  heat, 
Sometimes  in  Summer,  in  its  fervid  throe 


36  TWO       MILLIONS. 

Behind  the  heavy  clouds,  will  throb  and  beat, 

And  flood  the  darkness  with  its  tender  glow. 

But  now  the  present  sorrow  wore  no  face 

Of  hope  or  pity ;  from  his  own  disgrace 

He  shrank,  with  shattered  reason ;  for  a  space, 

Cast  frenzied  glances  on  his  wife  and  child, 

Then  sank  in  sad  oblivion  of  will, 

And  thought  and  sense  and  sight  and  being,  until, 

Gently  and  calmly,  on  an  Autumn  day, 

He  lost  his  hold  on  life  and  passed  away. 


II. 


WHEKE  should  she  go  ?    How,  from  the  solid 
'spheres, 

Hew  out  the  fortune  he  had  failed  to  carve  ? 
A  timid  woman,  trembling  and  in  tears, 
The  world  was  all  before  her — where  to  starve  ! 
The  world,  which  never  yet,  with  all  its  wit, 
In  any  clever  moment  chanced  to  hit, 
In  its  Malthusian  theories  of  Man, 
Or  other  muddy  shoals  quack  sages  swim  in, 
With  social  splashings,  upon  any  plan 
For  getting  rid  of  these  unfortunate  women  ! 


38  TWO      MILLIONS. 

Still,  still  they  haunt  us,  at  all  times  and  places, 
With  their  gaunt  shapes  and  pale,  imploring  faces, 
Still,  still  they  plead  by  every  tenderest  tie, 
For  help  and  pity  as  we  pass  them  by, 
Or  dole  the  pittance  which  we  give  and  grudge, 
Or  thrust  them  back,  with   merciless  hands,  to 

drudge 

In  the  scant  spaces  where  we  hem  them  in, 
With  metes  and  bounds  of  sex  and  caste,  and  then 
Brand  their  impatience  as  a  shame  and  sin, 
And  wicked  trespass  on  the  rights  of  men  ; 
Mock  their  loud  prayers  with  needles,  thread-,  and 

shears, 

And  when  they  cry  to  Heaven,  stop  our  ears ; 
In  our  cold  wisdom  harsher  than  the  Turk, 
He  shuts  them  up  for  pleasure,  we  for  work ! 

Thus  in  her  widowhood,  a  prisoner, 
In  all  the  earth  there  was  no  place  for  her. 
She  was  a  lady  once ;  there  was  the  rub  ; 
She  had  no  heart  to  beg,  no  strength  to  scrub, 
Or  earn  days'  wages  at  the  washing-tub ; 


TWO      MILLIONS.  39 

And  when  she  looked,  as  many  a  sorrowing  sister, 
Before  and  since,  down  that  attractive  Vista 
Which  opened  to  her  sight  with  joys  o'erflowing, 
That  charming  view,  a  lifetime  of  plain  sewing  ; 
She  found  that  all  its  fascinating  scenery 
Was  quite  cut  up  and  ruined  by  machinery ! 
Just  as  the  rapid  rattle  on  the  rail 
Destroys  the  calm  of  some  secluded  vale. 
She  saw  the  new  Invention's  tiny  shaft, 
As  in  its  nimble  task  it  plied  and  ticked, 
It  seemed  as  if  the  wicked  minion  laughed 
At  the  slow  thimble,  and  the  fingers  pricked 
With  weary  stitches,  and  cried  out  in  glee, 
Give  up  the  race,  you  can't  compete  with  me, 
The  seamstress  sinks  before  the  Patentee  ! 

She  looked  for  help  to  her  own  sex,  to  those 
Strong-minded  women  who  have  come  to  blows 
With  all  mankind,  and  publish  their  intentions 
In  fierce  debates  and  furious  Conventions ; 
To  one  of  these  she  went  and  sat  and  wondered, 
As  the  Olympian  Junos  stormed  and  thundered, 


40  TWO      MILLIONS. 

It  was  exciting,  but  the  heated  place 

Threw  not  a  ray  of  light  upon  her  case. 

She  did  not  long  to  cut  the  social  throat, 

She  did  not  want  two  husbands  or  one  vote, 

Or  to  discard  her  gentle,  womanly  nature, 

For  any  seat  in  any  Legislature. 

If  she  had  owned  an  acre,  on  its  axis, 

While  the  world  turned,  she  would  have  paid  her 

taxes, 

With  or  without  a  representative, 
For  what  she  wanted  was  a  chance  to  live, 
A  seat  at  Nature's  table,  and  a  share 
In  human  sympathy  and  love  and  care. 
Poor   child!    she  found  the  march  of  Women's 

Rights 

Is  not  for  her  who  suffers,  but  who  fights, 
And  the  prime  maxim,  in  its  foremost  van, 
Not  Love  to  Woman  but  Revenge  on  Man ! 

At  last,  when  Hunger  snapped  the  thread  of 

Pride, 
She  went  to  Firkin ;  in  the  world  beside, 


TWO      MILLIONS.  41 

She  had  no  other  hope,  nor  was  this  hope, 
But  the  last  glimmering  ray  by  which  to  grope 
Along  the  way  which  led,  she  knew  not  where, 
Through  the  untrodden  midnight  of  despair. 
She  sought  him  at  his  house,  that  lofty  pile, 
Built  on  the  Avenue,  in  the  latest  style 
Of  Merchant  Princes,  grand,  grotesque  and  florid, 
Out  of  the  finest  freestone  ever  quarried. 
In  its  erection,  as  he  oft  declared 
To  wondering  visitors,  no  expense  was  spared, 
And  had  he  said,  no  order  of  architecture, 
'Twould  have  been  truer  still,  as  I  conjecture. 
The  builders,  with  their  taste  so  fine  and  funny, 
Laid  themselves  out,  as  well  as  Firkin's  money, 
And  in  a  way  that  beggars  all  description, 
Blended  Corinthian,  Gothic  and  Egyptian, 
And  other  famous  styles  with  classic  rarities, 
In  one  grand  jumble  of  brown  stone  vulgarities. 
'Twas  bad  enough  outside,  but  once  within, 
It  was  like  probing  deeper  than  the  skin, 
Some  mammoth  fester,  such  its  tainted  mixtures 
Of  decorations,  furniture  and  fixtures. 


42 


TWO      MILLIONS. 


It  seemed  as  if  a  bomb-shell,  charged  and  loaded 
With  paint,  and  gilt,  and  plaster,  had  exploded, 
Without  regard  to  anybody's  feelings, 
On  walls  and  columns,  cornices,  and  ceilings. 
The  ambitious  plasterers  had  eclipsed  the  builders, 
And  in  their  turn  were  outdone  by  the  gilders  ; 
The  painters  then — beside  whose  rich  adorning, 
The  brightest  rainbow  would  have  seemed  deep 

mourning ; 

From  lowest  basement  up  to  topmost  attic, 
The  whole  was  gorgeous,  glaring  and  prismatic ; 
Pannelled  and  kalsomined,  and  striped,  and  starred, 
Paint  by  the  bucket,  frescoes  by  the  yard, 
Laid  on  in  thickest  layers  by  battalions 
Of  exiled  red  Republican  Italians ! 
With  pots  and  brushes,  blues  and  greens  and  yel 
lows, 

They  scaled  the  walls,  the  bold,  designing  fellows, 
And  took  the  house  by  storm  with  their  mythol 
ogy, 

Fruits,  flowers,  flamingoes,  landscapes,  and  zool 
ogy, 


TWO      MILLIONS.  43 

Mermaids  and  Fauns,  Arcadian  shepherdesses, 
Long  in  the  ringlets,  scanty  in  the  dresses, 
Heroes  and  gods  and  goddesses  and  ogres, 
Nymphs  hi  pink  tunics,  sages  hi  red  togas, 
Heads  of  Old  Masters,  shaded  somewhat  duller, 
And  full  length  Venuses,  all  in  flesh  color ! 
Then  following  up  the  grand  Two  Million  plan, 
Where  paint  left  off,  upholstery  began ; 
The  latest  artist  at  fresh  marvels  aims, 
Acres  of  mirrors  in  prodigious  frames, 
And  miles  of  damask,  spread  in  rich  expansion 
Of  gilt  and  crimson,  through  the  costly  mansion ; 
Incredible  carpets,  which  outstared  the  ceiling, 
With  flaming  hues  that  set  the  brain  to  reeling, 
And  with  the  walls  in  one  fierce  blaze  united — 
O  what  a  sight,  when  ah1  the  gas  was  lighted, 
And  Firkin,  seated  with  some  fellow  snob, 
Surveyed  the  scene  beneath  the  brilliant  streamers, 
Declared  the  parlors  were  "a  splendid  job, 
Which  went  ahead  of  all  the  Collins  steamers ; 
Taylor's  saloon,  when  every  jet  is  on  ; 
Or  the  new  Capitol  at  Washington  !  " 


44  TWO      MILLIONS. 

And  echoed  back  the  truthful  observation, 

"  There's  nothing  like  it  in  the  whole  creation !  " 

Here  our  poor  widow  sought  the  Millionnaire, 
But  little  knew  with  what  inveterate  care, 
His  doors  were  bolted  against  all  descriptions 
Of  paupers,  agents,  circulars  and  subscriptions. 
Her  poverty-stricken  air  at  once  detected, 
By  the  smart  footman,  she  was  first  inspected, 
With  his  sharp  scrutiny,  like  a  thing  infected ; 
And,  lest  the  plague  should  any  further  go, 
He  quarantined  her  in  the  portico. 
And,  as  there  was  no  process  of  fumigation 
By  which  to  disinfect  a  poor  relation, 
Or  long-discarded  pensioner  on  probation, 
Firkin  gave  orders  she  should  be  suppressed  ; 
He  sent  a  dollar,  with  the  kind  request 
She  would  not  call  again,  and  the  suggestion, 
That  it  appeared  to  him  beyond  all  question 
She  should  proceed  immediately  out  West ! 
She  took  the  money,  wished  it  had  been  more, 
For  her  child's  sake,  then  turned  and  left  the  door ; 


TWO      MILLIONS.  45 

Upon  the  marble  threshold,  from  her  feet, 
Shook  off"  the  dust,  then  shrank  to  her  retreat, 
A  distant  garret,  where  her  sorrows  and  prayers 
Climbed,  with  her  aching  feet,  those  weary  stairs ! 


III. 

IT  was  a  Summer's  day  in  Winter,  one 
Of  those  rare  noontides,  when  the  distant  Sun, 
Sees  the  fair  Earth,  all  dressed  in  virginal  snow, 
And  woes  her  beauty  with  a  warmer  glow. 
Firkin  bethought  him  that  he  owned  a  row 
Of  Tenement  Houses,  taken  for  a  debt, 
From  which  his  tardy  Agent  failed  to  get 
The  total  monthly  score  of  rent  betimes ; 
"  I'll  go,"  he  thought,  "  and  visit  him  for  his  crimes, 
Reduce  his  wages  and  increase  the  rent ; 
The  investment  only  yields  me  ten  per  cent., 


TWO      MILLIONS.  47 

And  with  such  property  one's  only  chance, 
Is  prompt  collection,  always  in  advance !  " 

The  TENEMEST  HOUSE,  o'er  which  no  friendly 

movement 

Has  waved  the  Enchanter's  wand  of  "  Modern  Im 
provement," 

With  half  cracked  walls  and  windows  all  askew, 
Stamped  with  the  blight  of  beggary  through  and 

through, 

Lintel  and  door-post  sprinkled  with  its  sign, 
House  after  house,  extends  the  dismal  line ; 
A  dreary  sight  to  philanthropic  eyes, 
Between  the  gutter  and  the  distant  skies, 
By  filth  and  noisome  odors  marked  and  tracked, 
Through  the  dense  districts  where  the  poor  are 

packed, 

Crowded  and  swarming  in  those  wretched  hives, 
Layer  on  layer  of  cheap  human  lives ! 
Or,  if  you  think  the  picture  overdrawn, 
Go  for  yourself,  if  you  have  never  gone  ; 


48  TWO      MILLIONS. 

Go  in  mid-winter,  when  the  drifting  sleet, 
Through  the  bare  hall  pursues  your  freezing  feet, 
And,  as  from  room  to  room  you  hurry  past, 
The  crazy  building  rattling  in  the  blast, 
At  doors  ajar,  gaunt  faces  peep  and  glare, 
In  hopes  some  friendly  step  may  linger  there. 
Go  in  mid-summer — when  the  August  rays 
Pour  on  the  place  their  fierce,  untempered  blaze ; 
From  the  scorched  pavement  to  the  sun-struck 

eaves, 

]STo  point  of  shade  the  flaming  mass  relieves, 
And  the  hot  air,  with  rank  and  poisonous  breath, 
Through    doors   and  windows   puffs   disease   and 

death. 

Or  go  as  Firkin  went — on  some  bright  day, 
When  all  without  glows  in  the  cheerful  ray ; 
And  as  your  footsteps  cross  the  mouldering  sill, 
Feel  the  cold  dampness  and  the  sudden  chill 
Strike  through  your  shivering  sense  with  omens 

ill: 

He  felt  it  not,  through  all  the  livelong  year, 
He  walked,  encircled  in  an  atmosphere, 


TWO      MILLIONS.  49 

Filtered  and  rarified  to  that  degree, 

By  his  Two  Million  power  of  solvency, 

That  such  impressions  had  no  power  of  stealing 

Into  his  perfect  vacuum  of  feeling  ; 

No  squalid  sights  disturbed  his  calm  repose, 

Nor  pity  reached  him  even  through  his  nose  ! 

He  gained  the  house,  entered  with  stately  air, 

Sought  the  delinquent  Agent  everywhere, 

In  vain — then  mounted,  while  each  conscious  stair 

Creaked  with  the  burden  of  the  Millionnaire, 

From  loft  to  loft,  up  to  the  topmost  floor  ; 

Here  paused  for  breath,  when,  suddenly,  a  door, 

Blown  by  a  vagrant  gust,  wide  open  flew, 

And  in  that  garret  chamber,  as  he  turned, 

On  the  bare  boards,  before  his  startled  view, 

She  stood  disclosed — the  hated  and  the  spurned ! 

There,  face  to  face,  they  stood ;  a  breathless  second, 
Looked  at  each  other  ;  then  she  sternly  beckoned  ; 
There  was  a  lightning  flash  within  her  eye, 
There  was  a  speaking  grandeur  in  her  form, 
That  cowed  and  awed  him,  though  he  knew  not 
why, 


50  TWO      MILLIONS. 

As  the  dumb  beast  quails  from  the  coming  storm 
It  dreads  to  meet,  but  sees  not  how  to  fly. 
He  crossed  the  sill ;  she  pointed  to  the  bed ; 
There  lay  her  boy,  his  innocent,  curly  head, 
Nestled  upon  the  pillow,  and  his  face 
Lit  with  the  solemn  and  unearthly  grace 
That  crowns  but  once  the  children  of  our  race  ; 
God  gives  it  when  He  takes  them — he  was  dead ! 
A  broken  toy,  a  bunch  of  withered  flowers, 
In  his  thin  hands  were  clasped,  his  breast  above, 
The  last  frail  links  that  to  this  world  of  ours 
Had  bound  the  sufferer — save  a  mother's  love. 
How  marble-white  and  fair — too  fair  to  bury ! 
But  Firkin  had  no  taste  for  statuary, 
Even  of  that  rare  style,  perfect  and  pure, 
"Where  Death  and  Beauty  set  their  signature. 
He  saw  and  looked  away,  his  dull,  dark  brow 
Touched  with  no  gleam  of  sympathy  ;  but  now 
The  latent  lightning  loosed,  and  flashed,  and  woke 
The  pent  up  tempest  of  her  soul ;  it  broke 
With  all  that  woman's  frantic  grief  could  pour, 


TWO      MILLIONS.  51 

Upon  his  guilty  head,  as  she  charged  home 
Her  husband's  death,  her   sweet   child's  martyr 
dom, 

To  his  account,  and  bade  him  pay  the  score. 
She  paused  a  moment,  as  upon  the  dun, 
Dark,  city  roofs  that  stretched  below,  the  sun 
Threw  out  its  setting  gleam,  and  lit  the  tips 
Of  tapering  masts,  where  the  great  merchant  ships 
Lay  at  their  wharves,  and  tinged  the  towering 

spires, 

With  the  last  flicker  of  its  waning  fires, 
As  all  along  the  wintry  sky  they  streamed. 
She  turned  and  saw ;  like  one  inspired  she  seemed, 
With  a  prophetic  fury,  as  of  old, 
Some  fabled  Pythoness  whose  oracles  rolled 
Along  the  Delphic  shadows  and  foretold 
The   doom  of  empires.      "  Look  !  oh  look ! "  she 

cried, 

"  The  sun  is  setting  on  your  pomp  and  pride  ; 
See  the  great  city,  stretching  through  the  light, 
Its  million  pulses  beating  towards  the  night ; 


52  TWO      MILLIONS. 

Think  not  for  such  as  you  it  toils  and  groans, 
In  ceaseless  struggles,  for  the  very  stones 
Would  cry  aloud,  were  all  its  wealth  like  yours  ; 
Know  that  the  righteous  Heaven  scarce  endures 
Your  hateful  presence  ;  nor  can  I ;  begone, 
And  with  you  take  my  loathing  and  my  scorn. 
The  hour  is  near  when  you  shall  colder  lie, 
Than  this  poor  babe  who  here  has  crept  to  die  ; 
Then  know  that  close  behind  your  gorgeous  hearse, 
Shall  follow  in  its  train  the  Widow's  curse, 
And  heavier  than  the  marble,  on  you  press, 
The  malediction  of  the  Fatherless  !  " 

Firkin  was  reckoned,  as  all  Wall  street  knows, 
A  handsome  speaker ;  self-made  Ciceros, 
With  lungs  for  logic  and  for  brains,  effront'ry, 
Are  not  uncommon  in  our  growing  country. 
And  when  the  Gold  Swamp  stockholders,  of  late, 
Presented  him  with  that  grand  piece  of  plate, 
Upon  declaring  the  extra  Dividend, 
In  which  they  cleverly  contrived  to  spend 


TWO      MILLIONS.  53 

Out  of  their  Capital,  the  last  cent  of  cash, 
Just  twenty  days  before  the  final  smash, 
He  made  a  speech  which  all  the  Daily  Press, 
Flushed  with  champagne,  pronounced  a  great  suc 
cess. 

But  now  he's  dumb ;  no  public  diner  out, 
Entirely  unaccustomed  and  unprepared 
For  the  occasion,  ever  looked  about 
In  blanker  silence  ;  there  he  stood  and  stared, 
Stupid  and  stunned,  and  when,  with  queenly  air, 
She  waved  him  from  her,  like  a  worthless  thing, 
Shrank  from  her  glance,  in  speechless  terror,  there, 
Turned  on  his  heel  and  went,  the  poisoned  sting 
Rankling  and  festering  in  the  inmost  core, 
Of  that  self-love  no  shaft  e'er  pierced  before. 
He  boiled  with  rage ;  he  felt  he  had  been  tricked 
Into  the  garret,  and  his  person  picked 
Of  all  its  dignity ;  his  seething  brain 
With  fury  reeled  and  throbbed  with  sudden  pain, 
And  a  vague  terror  he  could  not  restrain. 
Still,  as  he  hurried  on  his  homeward  track, 
Upon  his  thought  the  garret  scene  came  back, — 


54  TWO      MILLIONS. 

The  desolate  room,  the  corpse,  the  withered  flower, 
Her  curse,  the  blight  of  all  that  sunset  hour ; 
And  in  their  wild  disorder  and  confusion, 
One  thought  still  struggled  upward — Retribution ! 
Haunted  and  dogged  him,  through  the  shadows 

dim, 

Outran  his  heavy  step,  awaited  him, 
As  through  his  spacious  halls  he  passed  and  sought 
His  private  chamber,  where,  with  cunning  wrought, 
Cased  in  the  solid  wall,  with  massive  locks 
And  bolts  and  bars,  he  kept  his  great,  strong  box. 
There  in  the  winter  evenings  he  resorted, 
His  deeds  and  bonds  and  mortgages  assorted, 
Indulged  in  long  financial  lucubrations, 
And  laid  his  plans  for  future  speculations. 
Thither  he  hastened  now,  to  cool  the  flame, 
Kindled  within  by  hate  and  scorn  and  shame ; 
Hour  after  hour,  he  sat  and  vainly  tried, 
In  all  his  great  estate,  to  bury  and  hide, 
From  his  own  sense,  his  galled  and  blasted  pride. 
He  felt  himself  a  beggar ;  had  he  dreamed, 
Or  was  he  really  what,  in  thought,  he  seemed, 


TWO      MILLIONS.  55 

Bankrupt  and  penniless  ?     From  a  secret  till, 

He  drew  and  opened,  with  trembling   hand,  his 

WILL, 

That  weighty  document,  on  which  depended 
So  much  when  once  his  lease  of  life  was  ended ; 
Perchance  'twould  reassure  him  there  to  see 
The  whole  Two  Millions  in  epitome ; 
He  grasps  it  firmly,  'tis  no  mockery ! 
But,  as  he  grasps,  why  do  his  eyes  grow  dim, 
And  all  the  page  before  his  senses  swim  ? 
There  is  no  strange  handwriting  on  the  wall, 
Through  all  the  midnight  hush  no  threatening  call, 
Nor  on  the  marble  floors  the  stealthy  fall 
Of  fatal  footstep.    All  is  safe.    Thou  Fool, 
The  avenging  Deities  are  shod  with  wool! 
Nor  in  the  air  around,  nor  overhead, 
We  hear  the  sound  or  echo  of  their  tread, 
Nor  catch  the  rustling  of  the  rapid  dart 
That  wings  its  errand  to  the  victim's  heart ! 


IV. 


AND  there  they  found  him ;  when  the  morning 

broke, 

And  from  their  attic  dreams  the  housemaids  woke, 
The  earliest  servant,  while  from  floor  to  floor 
She  went,  was  startled  as  she  passed  the  door. 
The  room  was  silent,  but  the  light  still  burned, 
And,  wondering  at  the  unwonted  waste,  she  turned, 
Looked  in  with  curious  eye,  then  at  the  sight, 
Or  what  she  thought  she  saw,  started  with  fright ; 
Started,  but   checked   a   scream ;    looks   in   once 

more, 
Laughs,  half  in  earnest,  at  her  silly  fears, 


TWO      MILLIONS.  57 

Then  ventures  in,  with  rapid  step,  uncertain, 
And,  breathless  with  fresh  terror,  draws  the  curtain, 
Crimson  and  heavy ;  and  the  daylight  peers 
Through  the  great  window,  not  a  friendly  visitor, 
But  with  the  cold,  gray  glance  of  an  Inquisitor, 
Searching  and  prying  with  malignant  spite, 
To  drag  some  hidden  horror  to  the  light. 
A  moment,  while  her  heart  beats  fast  and  faster, 
The  servant  stands  and  looks  upon  her  master ; 
One  glance  from  head  to  foot,  from  foot  to  head, 
Then  through  the   house  shouts,  frantic — "he  is 
dead!" 

Soon,  roused  from  sleep,  the  startled  Family, 
(Those  Firkin  Cousins,  to  the  tenth  degree) 
From  every  room,  rush  to  the  fearful  place, 
Where,  cold  and  rigid,  with  distorted  face, 
And  stiffened  limbs  and  fixed  and  ghastly  glare, 
He  sits,  a  spectacle — but  I  forbear 
The  gross  description,  though  the  situation 
Tempts  to  the  tragic,  with  solicitation 


58  TWO      MILLIONS. 

To  launch  our  song  upon  the  tide  that  sets 
Towards  Melodramas  and  Police  Gazettes, 
Blood-red  with  horrors ;  let  me  rather  screen 
The  dismal  picture,  and  dismiss  the  scene. 
Yet,  ere  it  passes  wholly  from  the  thought, 
By  one  strange  sight  the  startled  sense  is  caught ; 
Those  outstretched  hands,  what  is  that  they  grasp 
With  clutch  convulsive,  in  their  iron  clasp  ? 
Half  in  each  hand,  a  torn  and  crumpled  roll — 
"What  Sybil's  mystic  leaves,  or  fated  scroll, 
What  pass,  unchallenged,  to  the  eternal  ages, 
That  he  should  hold  so  fast  those  written  pages  ? 
They  wonder,  too,  the  crowd  who  stand  and  stare, 
Grouped  in  the  chamber,  round  the  fatal  chair, 
Shocked  and  bewildered,  striving  to  condense 
Their  vague,  impalpable  terror,  to  a  sense 
Of  present  evil.     They,  too,  look  and  wonder 
At  the  clinched  hands  and  pages  torn  asunder ; 
Then  swift  suspicion  follows  on  surprise, 
They  seize  the  fingers  motionless  and  still, 
Glance  at  the  severed  sheets  with  searching  eyes, 
And  point  and  whisper,  "  'tis  the  dead  man's  WILL  ! " 


TWO    MTLLIONS.  59 

Firkin's  La%  Will !    But  who  may  know  the  fact, 

r  destroyed  by  his  deliberate  act, 
Or  rent  and  shattered  in  his  struggling  clutch, 
When,  with  convulsive  throes,  the  sudden  stroke 
Shot  through  his  frame,  swift  as  the  lightning  touch 
Shivers,  with  fatal  flash,  the  heart  of  oak. 
This  is  the  question  which  they  much  revolve, 
And  long  to  guess  and  vainly  seek  to  solve. 
As  through  the  halls  and  up  the  staircase  grand, 
The  lifeless,  heavy  weight  is  upward  borne, 
Still,  as  he  goes,  he  grasps  in  either  hand 
The  rustling  leaves,  illegible  and  torn ; 
And  when  they  lay  him,  like  a  child  asleep, 
Gently  upon  his  bed,  his  fingers  keep 
Their  desperate  hold,  and  still  returns  the  query, 
With  which    their  wits    the    anxious    household 

weary, 

How  came  it  thus  ?  by  chance  or  act  of  sense, 
And  what,  in  either  case,  the  consequence  ? 
If  torn  unconsciously,  is  not  the  paper 
His  Will  no  less  ?    A  little  wax,  a  taper, 


60  TWO    MILLIONS. 

If  from  his  hands  it  can  be  loosed  -yith  care, 

Are  all  it  needs  the  damage  to  repair.  -    ., 

But  is  that  wisest  ?  it  is  undecided 

As  yet,  entirely,  what  the  Will  provided, 

To  whom  it  shows  his  final  generosity, 

To  whom  his  love,  and  whom  his  animosity  ; 

Perhaps  'tis  better  to  assume  he  meant 

To  leave  behind  him  no  last  Testament, 

And  so  destroyed  it — but  then  who  are  heirs, 

And  what  will  be  their  rights,  and  what  their  shares  ? 

One  thing  is  certain,  this  they  all  agree — 

"  In  this  strange  crisis,  it  is  best  to  see 

If  'tis  a  case  of  real  Intestacy, 

Without  delay  or  further  speculations. 

How  can  we  mourn  and  weep  for  him  at  ease, 

Until  we  know,  his  sorrowful  relations, 

If  we  are  Heirs  at  Law  or  Devisees  ? 

This  must  be  fixed  beyond  all  contradiction, 

And  that  at  once — business  before  affliction  ! 

We  can  postpone  the  heavier  claims  of  sorrow, 

The  mourning  won't  be  ready  till  to-morrow  ; 

Besides,  it  is  but  just  to  the  departed, 


TWO      MILLIONS.  61 

That  the  enquiry  should  at  once  be  started, 
He  was  so  prompt,  in  life ;  at  any  rate, 
It  will  not  do  that  we  degenerate ; 
Whatever  happens  to  his  fortune  ample, 
He  has,  at  least,  bequeathed  us  his  example  !  " 
So  out  of  reverence,  a  new  variety, 
And  touching  instance  of  Collateral  piety, 
Before  his  form  was  dressed  for  its  last  journey, 
The  afflicted  family  sent  for  their  Attorney  ! 

Firkin  had  hated  Lawyers  all  his  life  ; 
Not  that  he  feared  the  risks  of  legal  strife, 
'Twas  rather  suited  to  his  inclination 
To  keep  a  moderate  stock  of  litigation. 
But  Lawyers  were  a  class  he  never  trusted, 
Especially  when  their  fees  must  be  adjusted ; 
Like  all  this  world's  best  things,  he  could  not  use 

them 

Without  a  strong  temptation  to  abuse  them, 
And  that  more  heartily,  because,  no  doubt, 
They  were  the  men  who  soonest  found  him  out. 


62  TWO      MILLIONS. 

He  was  peculiarly  hard  and  unforgiving 

On  those  so  lucky  as  to  make  a  living. 

Firkin,  whose  life  was  one  long,  shrewd  device 

To  get  the  most  by  parting  with  the  least, 

The  largest  value  for  the  smallest  price, 

(A  notion  not  exclusively  "down  East,") 

Disliked,  on  principle,  these  legal  gentry, 

Who  dealt  in  something  besides  double  entry ; 

And  lost  in  quibbles,  points  and  learned  jargon, 

Couldn't,  to  save  their  lives,  drive  a  sharp  bargain ! 

"Why  should  they  thrive,  (in  his  wise  way  he  said  it,) 

They  had  no  capital  and  little  credit ; 

And  if  'twas  talents  helped  them  to  their  gains, 

Why  then  there  ought  to  be  a  tax  on  brains  ! 

Besides,  a  weightier  argument  he  founds — 

The  virtuous  censor— on  high  moral  grounds, 

"  He  knew  the  law  to  be  a  knavish  science, 

Made  to  demoralize  ingenuous  clients  ; 

Who  ever  saw  a  single  instance  yet, 

Of  any  debtor  sneaking  out  of  debt, 

By  pleading  usury  or  limitation, 

Save  by  a  lawyer's  pen  and  penetration  ? 


TWO      MILLIONS. 


63 


•Who  ever  skulked  behind  the  law's  delay, 

Unless  some  shrewd  attorney  showed  the  way, 

By  his  superior  skill  got  the  ascendant, 

And  let  astray  the  innocent  defendant  ?  " 

'Twas  touching,  quite,  his  horror  when  he  saw, 

How  Lawyers  set  aside  the  Moral  Law. 

Thus,  under  cover  of  the  Decalogue, 

He  aimed  and  fired,  through  thickest  mental  fog, 

His  red-hot  shot  at  that  suspicious  craft, 

The  New  York  Bar,  and  raked  them  fore  and  aft. 

Protesting  ever,  as  his  firm  conviction, 

An  honest  Lawyer  was  a  Legal  Fiction  ! 

Yet  he  employed  one  ;  in  his  dangerous  hands, 
Trusted  the  title  deeds  of  all  his  lands ; 
Breathed  in  his  ear  his  choicest  confidence  ; 
Drew  from  his  subtle  mind  its  keenest  sense  ; 
Taxed  him  with  problems,  new  and  strange,  and 

kept 

His  tired  brain  working,  while  his  client  slept. 
He  loved  to  see  the  Athletes  of  the  Bar, 
Foot-sore  and  dusty,  chase  the  gilded  car 


64  TWO      MILLIONS. 

Of  wealth,  and  feel,  keen  as  the  driver's  lash,         ^ 
In  all  their  strength,  their  conscious  need  of  cash. 
He  liked  to  have  their  learning  and  their  skill 
Drudge  in  his  cause,  like  Samson  at  the  mill. 
Then,  in  the  reckoning,  grudged  a  greater  latitude 
For  their  requital  than  his  scanty  gratitude ! 

Well,  let  it  pass ;  his  prejudice,  perchance, 
Was  partly  envy,  partly  ignorance  ; 
And  most  the  latter,  for  the  loudest  bark, 
As  we  all  know,  is  always  in  the  dark ! 

The  Man  of  Law  obeys  the  early  warning, 
Which  summoned  him  to  seek  the  house  of  mourning ; 
His  measured  footsteps  crossed  the  marble  hall, 
And,  scarce  perceived,  he  entered  where  they  all 
Waited  his  coming ;  not  in  mute  suspense, 
But  with  loud  strife,  impatient  and  intense. 
They  had  contrived,  I  know  not  in  what  way, 
To  extricate  the  Will,  and  there  it  lay — 
Its  separate  fragments  strewn  upon  the  table, 
And  all  its  items,  as  they  best  were  able, 


TWO      MILLIONS.  65 

They  had  deciphered — some  with  eager  pleasure, 
Some  with  vexation  which  no  words  can  meas 
ure  ; 

For  those  were  well  endowed,  who  nothing  merited, 
These  scarcely  mentioned,  or  quite  disinherited ! 
I  cannot  pause  to  give  the  long  deduction, 
But  to  the  family  peace  it  was  destruction ! 
At  once  two  parties,  in  that  house  of  Death, 
Sprang  into  life,  full  armed,  with  poisoned  breath, 
"  Witt"  and  "  No  Witt,"  their  test  and  shibboleth. 
And,  when  the  Lawyer  came,  both  sets  of  heirs 
Pounced  fiercely  on  him,  claiming  he  was  theirs. 
He  calmed  the  uproar,  heard  the  story  through, 
And  strove  in  vain  to  catch  its  hidden  clue. 
To  tear  his  Will  had  Firkin  really  meant, 
Or  was  it  only  a  strange  accident  ? 
Perchance  a  question  purely  of  intent, 
Perchance  of  doubtful  law ;  in  either  view, 
The  case  was  novel  and  the  point  was  new  ; 
And,  it  was  plain  at  the  first  observation 
Good  for  a  Trojan  War  of  litigation. 


66  TWO      MILLIONS. 

Straight  on  the  lawyer's  clear,  prophetic  sight, 
THE  FIRKIN  WILL  CASE  rises  into  light, 
Latest  and  greatest  of  the  famous  causes, 
About  last  wills,  their  codicils  and  clauses. 
He  sees  the  eager  birds  of  prey  who  wait, 
Around  the  carcase  of  the  huge  estate, 
In  the  dim  chambers  of  the  Surrogate  ; 
Three  bulky  quartos  stuffed  with  the  proceedings, 
Ten  leading  Lawyers  crammed  with  special  plead 
ings; 

A  hundred  witnesses  on  either  side, 
With  cross  examinations  scarified ; 
And  twenty  Doctors,  portly  and  persistent, 
With  twenty  theories,  all  inconsistent ! 
But,  fairest  sight  of  all,  besides,  he  sees 
A  princely  revenue  of  costs  and  fees, 
No  risk  of  loss,  no  client  to  be  dunned, 
All  the  expenses  charged  upon  the  Fund  ! 
Here  was  Temptation.     Here,  too,  Opportunity 
To  plead  for  peace,  domestic  love,  and  unity. 
A  Lawyer's  duty,  as  its  line  he  saw, 
Was  first  to  keep  his  clients  out  of  law ! 


TWO      MILLIONS.  67 

He  seized  the  occasion  ;  while  his  sallow  face 
Flushed  with  the  unwonted  theme,  he  snatched  a 

grace, 

Beyond  the  utmost  reach  of  Coke  or  Chitty, 
And  half  in  honest  scorn,  and  half  in  pity, 
While  all  his  hearers  marvelled  as  he  spoke, 
Thus  from  his  lips  his  stern  remonstrance  broke  : 

"  My  Friends,  this  should  be  settled !     Mend 

the  Will, 

Mend  it  and  prove  it  and  thereby  fulfil 
The  better  law  of  love,  and  kindly  waive 
All  thought  of  strife  above  the  new  made  grave. 
Close  the  estate  as  in  the  Will  provided, 
But  with  the  agreement,  that  it  be  divided, 
By  those  who  take,  in  just  and  generous  shares, 
Among  all  parties  claiming  to  be  heirs. 
Take  my  advice,  the  best  in  all  such  cases, 
And  come  to  terms  upon  this  liberal  basis. 
Who  fights  to  the  end  may  win,  but  doubly  wise 
Who  knows  the  moment  when  to  compromise, 


68  TWO       MILLIONS. 

And,  for  a  bird  in  hand,  forbears  to  push 

A  doubtful  search  for  two  inside  the  bush. 

So  thought  the  Allies,  when  they  changed  the  venue 

From  Crimean  trenches,  batteries  and  tents, 

To  that  Round  Table,  where  the  very  men  you 

Had  lately  known  as  fierce  belligerents, 

Sat  down  to  still  the  tempest  that  they  woke, 

The  fettered  hands  of  Commerce  to  release, 

To  sign  preliminaries,  and  to  smoke, 

If  not  the  pipe,  the  mild  cigar  of  Peace  ! 

Do  as  they  did ;  relinquish  every  laurel 

That  might  be  won  in  this  grand  family  quarrel, 

And  like  fair,  Christian  men,  settle  betimes  ; 

Blunders  in  such  contingencies  are  crimes. 

If  not  the  plan  I  hint,  propose  another, 

Necessity  is  still  Invention's  mother ; 

And  surely  in  this  case,  without  delay, 

A  method  may  be  found,  if,  as  they  say, 

Wherever  there's  a  WILL  there  is  a  way ! 

"  But  if  you  find,  between  conflicting  views, 


TWO      MILLIONS.  69 

And  jarring  claims,  too  great  disparity, 

Give  the  whole  fortune  (which  they  won't  refuse) 

To  some  deserving  city  Charity ; 

Or,  if  this  fails,  then,  as  a  last  resort, 

Stay  ah1  proceedings,  cut  the  matter  short, 

Fly  from  the  law  and  juries  and  reporters, 

Change  the  Two  Millions  into  solid  metal, 

And  sink  the  bullion  in  the  deepest  waters 

This  side  the  Narrows — rather  than  not  settle  ! 

Far  better  thus  than  make  your  names  a  handle 

For  public  ridicule  and  private  scandal ; 

Far  better  thus  than  drag  through  all  the  Courts, 

To  point  Opinions  and  to  swell  Reports  ; 

To  make  the  rich  man  shudder  as  he  sees 

How  swift  a  curse,  what  dire  calamities, 

May  wait  upon  the  wealthiest,  for  whom — 

Equal  with  beggars  in  the  final  doom — 

Death  is  appointed,  with  its  unknown  ills, 

And  after  death — the  probate  of  their  Wills ; 

The  ruinous  vices,  or  the  endless  hate, 

Too  oft  distributed  with  their  estate, 


70  TWO      MILLIONS. 

Or  the  hot  haste  which,  in  one  generation, 
Squanders  a  lifetime's  slow  accumulation. 
To  make  the  poor  man,  in  his  worst  despair, 
Thank  God,  at  least,  he's  not  a  Millionnaire  ! 
To  lie — scarce  coffined  in  his  marble  vault, 
Scarce  hushed  the  echo  of  the  funeral  prayers, 
Ere,  overhead,  begins  the  fierce  assault, 
And  deadly  struggle  of  contending  heirs ; 
Ruthless  of  memory  or  of  honest  fame ; 
Reckless  of  virtues,  earlier  or  later  ; 
And  sinking  even  the  once  honored  name, 
In  that  post-mortem  title — the  TESTATOR  !  " 

He   ceased ;  none   answered,  save  one  meta 
physical 

Young  lady,  whom  the  family  thought  satirical, 
Remarked,  aside,  with  glances  somewhat  quizzical, 
That,  really,  the  afiair  was  quite  a  miracle — 
SATAN  reproving  SIN — the  peroration 
Of  the  distinguished  Counsellor's  oration, 
Where  he  alluded  to  Virtue  with  such  force, 
Would  have  been  more  appropriate,  of  course, 


TWO      MILLIONS.  71 

Were  it  not  known  that  of  that  useful  article 
The  late  lamented  never  had  a  particle ! 

And  did  they  settle  as  their  Counsel  bid  ? 
My  precious  Reader,  do  you  think  they  did  ? 
He  left  the  house  ;  his  fruitless  task  was  done ; 
And  soon  the  clients  following,  one  by  one 
(Each,  eager  in  the  race  to  be  the  winner), 
Retained  a  dozen  Lawyers  before  dinner  ! 

Meanwhile,  a  hundred  rumors  took  the  air  ; 
u  Firkin  was  dead,  the  famous  Millionnaire, 
Found  dead  at  daylight,  sitting  in  his  chair, 
His  breath  quite  gone,  the  vital  spark  extinct." 
This  was  the  first  report,  startling  and  strange, 
Posted  on  bulletins  and  heard  on  'Change  ; 
Sadder  the  story  scarce  could  be,  or  shorter. 
Indeed,  our  valued  friend,  the  News  Reporter, 
Found  it,  at  once,  entirely  too  succinct 
To  serve  his  purpose.     An  event  so  solemn 
Should  furnish  solid  matter  for  a  column, 
4 


72  TWO       MILLIONS. 

And  to  despatch  it  in  a  paragraph 

Were  to  disgrace  the  Associated  Press, 

And  bring  discredit  on  that  gallant  staff 

Of  short-hand  Templars,  at  whose  challenge  dreaded 

Each  faintest  whisper,  each  remotest  guess, 

A  CITY  ITEM  stands,  in  line  and  leaded, 

To  pierce  from  Wall  street  to  the  Wilderness. 

'Twas  not  enough  the  matter  was  so  serious, 

ITEMS  determined  it  should  be  mysterious  ; 

A  flood  of  rumors  must  be  got  about, 

The  public  head  must  have  a  rush  of  doubt, 

The  public  sense  be  stunned  with  contradiction, 

Then  kept  alive  with  stimulants  and  friction. 

So  at  the  first  announcement  Items  hinted 

That  strange  developments  would  soon  be  printed, 

Then  in  loud  whispers,  like  a  stage  "  Aside," 

Gave  out  vague  inklings  about  "  Suicide  " — 

"Death  by  his  own  rash  act  " — the  hidden  clue, 

Domestic  troubles  none  but  Items  knew, 

Financial  storms,  not  dreamed  of  in  the  street, 

Till  Items  should  divulge  the  balance-sheet. 


TWO      MILLIONS. 

This  fires  the  train — the  incendiaries  throw 
Upon  the  town,  completely  to  perplex  it, 
The  choice  of  weapons  for  the  fatal  blow 
By  which  poor  Firkin  made  his  final  exit ; 
A  master  stroke,  for  the  whole  point  is  now, 
Not  did  he  kill  himself,  but  only  how  ? 
But  O,  sagacious  Items,  well  you  know 
How  wise  to  have  two  strings  to  one  long  bow, 
Discreetly,  therefore,  at  the  self -same  time, 
You  give  oracular  hints  of  darker  crime — 
"  Firkin  a  suicide  !  nothing  absurder, 
Murder  will  out,  and  what  is  this  but  murder  ?  " 
Perchance  a  luckier  venture  than  the  first, 
The  public  likes  so  well  to  know  the  worst, 
And  with  the  latest  horror  slake  the  thirst, 
The  old,  original,  human  thirst  for  blood, 
Whose  savage  scent,  keen  as  in  kite  or  vulture, 
Still  filters  down  from  our  primeval  mud, 
Through  the  pure  Parian  of  our  modern  Culture. 
But,  about  noon,  both  theories  exploded — 
A  fatal  issue,  Items  had  foreboded, 


74  TWO      MILLIONS. 

But  still  the  veteran  energies  contrive 
To  fan  the  spark  and  keep  the  fire  alive ; 
Suppose  he  died  a  natural  death,  what  then  ? 
Of  course  he  must,  like  all  distinguished  men, 
Have  uttered  some  last  words,  and  what  were  they  ? 
FIKKIN'S  LAST  WORDS  !     Items  alone  can  say. 
One  version  ran  that,  turning  to  the  wall, 
He  said  something  profound  about  the  Fall, 
But  the  narrator  somehow  had  forgotten, 
Whether  he  meant  the  Fall  of  Man,  or  Cotton. 
Another,  that,  before  his  eyes  were  fixed,  he 
Said  he  should  go  at  taker's  option — sixty ! 
Another  still,  to  show  his  mental  vigor, 
Put  on  his  lips  this  sentiment  sublime, 
That  he  had  lived  up  to  his  final  figure, 
Just  one  per  cent,  of  all  recorded  Time  ! 
But,  of  a  sudden,  this  new  blaze  went  out, 
And  left  involved  in  blackest,  midnight  doubt 
Firkin's  last  words,  like  (though  I  hate  comparisons) 
Great  William  Pitt's  or  good  old  General  Harrison's ! 
For  now  the  story  of  the  Will,  at  last, 
Is  in  the  wind,  and  flying  free  and  fast ; 


TWO      MILLIONS.  75 

Items  must  haste  the  rumor  to  sequestrate, 
And  tell  the  World  that  Firkin  died  intestate ! 

And  the  World  listens,  with  its  greedy  ears, 
And  in  the  midst  of  all  its  cares  and  fears, 
Its  toils  and  troubles,  stands  a  moment  still 
To  ask  if,  really,  Firkin  left  no  Will  ? 
And  then  to  question,  doubt  and  speculate, 
What  will  become  of  his  immense  estate  ? 
Or  may  not  yet  the  damaged  Will  suffice, 
Why  should  the  Statute  be  so  over  nice  ? 
Oh  fond  and  foolish  World  !  why  waste  a  thought 
On  these  vain  matters  which  concern  you  not ; 
Let  the  Two  Millions  tremble  in  the  scales, 
What  odds  to  you  whichever  side  prevails  ? 
Oh  captious  Cynic,  thus  the  World  replies, 
Our  empty  pockets  do  not  blind  our  eyes ; 
A  solid  fortune,  though  not  half  a  dime 
Come  to  our  fingers,  is  a  sight  sublime  ; 
That  which  is  rarest  still  the  most  will  please  ; 
Why  to  the  distant  Alps  and  Pyrenees, 


76  TWO      MILLIONS. 

And  Apennine  and  Tyrol  do  you  roam, 

When   there   are   lakes   and    mountains   here   at 

home  ? 

While  you  indulge  your  errant  fancies  yonder, 
Leave  us  our  home-made  visions  of  Golconda, 
Let  us  enjoy  in  all  its  golden  glare 
The  distant  prospect  of  the  Millionnaire  ! 

But  most  of  all  this  sudden  stroke  of  fate, 
Provoked  the  Legal  world  to  high  debate  ; 
The  grateful  Bar,  with  tears  in  all  its  eyes, 
Sees  that  in  Firkin's  death  it  draws  a  prize ; 
That  he,  like  many  of  our  rich  Patricians, 
Who  all  their  lives  have  grudged  a  counsel  fee, 
Quarrelled  with  Costs  and  Term  fees  and  commis 
sions, 

The  Law  and  Lawyers — after  death  would  be, 
In  spite  of  every  adverse  prepossession, 
A  liberal  patron  of  the  learned  profession. 
In  clearest  light  the  admiring  Bar  foresaw, 
Firki^  would  live  immortal  in  the  Law, 


TWO       MILLIONS.  77 

His  fame  should  rise  sublime,  in  after  ages, 
To  heights,  in  life,  he  never  dreamed  to  clamber, 
His  name  embalmed  in  scores  of  legal  pages 
In  lucid  dicta,  like  a  fly  in  amber  ! 
Great  was  the  strife  through  all  the  Bar's  domin 
ions, 

Grave  were  the  doubts,  conflicting  the  opinions, 
From  Judges  doAvn  to  those  ambitious  Students, 
Who,  in  the  dawning  light  of  Jurisprudence, 
With  their  long  weapons  and  tremendous  aim, 
In  bogs  of  Practice  bag  their  legal  game  ; 
Or,  after  nobler  sport,  pursue  the  scent 
Of   those    stanch  'pointers,   Blackstone — Story — 

Kent ! 

Long  they  discuss,  in  all  those  smoky  places, 
Where,  after  Court,  they  show  their  hairy  faces, 
The  novel  topic  in  all  points  of  view, 
And  strive  to  cut  the  Gordian  knot  in  two. 
Their  bristling  Points  and  their  uncommon  Pleas, 
Their  large  citations  of  authorities 
Are  not  reported ;  but,  by  way  of  sample, 
I  rescue  from  oblivion  ono  example  : 


78  TWO      MILLIONS. 

"If  I  were  Counsel,"  cried  one  youthful  jurist, 
"  I  would  maintain  the  Will ;  that  side  is  surest. 
Is  it  not  known  our  highest  Court,  of  late, 
Decided  that  hop-poles  are  Real  Estate ! 
(Though  piled  and   stacked  in  barns,)  upon  the 

ground, 

That  they  were  once  united  with  the  soil ; 
And  following  out  this  reasoning  profound, 
Does  it  require  from  me  the  slightest  toil," 
Proceeds  our  advocate,  with  gestures  fiery, 
"  To  show  on  principle,  the  great  inquiry, 
Touching  the  Firkin  Will  is  only,  whether 
The  severed  parts  had  ever  been  together  ! " 

Some  hours  before,  when  first  the  stir  began, 
They  brought  the  Rector  word;  the  worthy  man, 
Shocked  at  the  dismal  news,  sat  down  to  plan 
A  funeral  sermon  for  the  great  occasion, 
Which  should  convey,  from  every  earthly  station, 
The  richest  member  of  his  congregation. 
Richest,  smooth  phrase  which,  with  its  silken  rarity, 
Covers  as  great  a  swarm  of  sins  as  Charity, 


TWO       MILLIONS.  79 

And  even  with  the  strict  ecclesiastic, 
Watching  benignly  o'er  his  city  fold, 
So  often  swerves  his  sense,  with  influence  plastic, 
Against  their  vices  to  offset  their  gold  ; 
For  human  nature  to  itself  is  true, 
And  still  the  same  in  pulpit  and  in  pew. 
Nay,  never  start  and  frown,  with  aspect  sinister, 
My  worthy  Madam,  I   don't  mean  your  Minister  ! 
But  only  Firkin's  !     O,  my  clerical  friend, 
Your  knee  should  surely  be  the  last  to  bend 
In  Mammon  worship  ;  for  the  Priest  and  Preacher, 
Should,  like  his  Master,  aim  to  be  the  Teacher 
And  friend  of  every  man  who  walks  the  Earth, 
Without  inquiring — "  How  much  is  he  worth  ?  " 
But  tell  me,  you,  whose  polished  periods  poured, 
In  vain,  on  Firkin,  while  he  slept  and  snored, 
Snug  in  the  tufted  velvet ;  you  who  have 
The  Wealthy  with  you  always,  can  you  brave 
The  social  tyrannies,  whose  iron  heel, 
Tramples  on  Christian  love  and  faith  and  zeal, 
And  makes  God's  poor  almost  an  exiled  race, 

Even  from  the  open  Temples  of  His  grace  ? 
4* 


80  TWO      MILLIONS. 

Say,  iii  your  sympathies,  who  largest  shares, 
Or  in  your  secret  sighs,  or  public  prayers, 
This  well-endowed,  well-clad,  well-fed  parishioner, 
Close  by  the  chancel,  or  that  poor  petitioner, 
"Who  hides  and  worships  in  the  distant  gallery, 
And  never  paid  a  penny  towards  your  salary  ? 
Say  which  you  welcome  with  the  warmest  smiles, 
These  brilliant  butterflies,  whose  dazzling  files, 
In  rustling  silks,  sweep  through  the  sacred  aisles  ; 
Or  that  sad  sister,  half  ashamed  to  go, 
And  praise  her  Maker,  dressed  in  calico  ! 
Say,  for  these  queries  you  can  best  determine, 
What  is  the  aim  in  that  grand  charity  sermon, 
Full  of  fine   Points,  which  you  shall  preach  to 
night, 

DIVES'  subscription,  payable  at  sight, 
Or  yonder  widow's  prayer  and  widow's  mite  ? 
There  is  who  marks  them  both;  there  is  who  weighs, 
In  His  just  hands,  the  offering  and  its  praise, 
With  whom  the  test  of  that  unerring  trial, 
Is  not  the  Dollar,  but  the  Self-Denial ! 


TWO      MILLIONS.  81 

But  this  is  episode — its  innocent  source, 
Firkin's  unwritten  Funeral  Discourse, 
For  which  our  Clerical  friend  is  sore  perplexed, 
Where  to  discover  an  appropriate  Text ! 
In  vain,  on  eulogistic  thoughts  intent, 
He  turned  the  pages  of  his  Testament. 
Skipped  the  Beatitudes,     The  place  passed  by, 
About  the  camel  and  the  needle's  eye ; 
Wisely  discarded  too,  as  extra  hazardous, 
The  parable  of  the  Rich  Man  and  Lazarus ! 
Gave  up  the  Gospels  ;  hurried  past  the  facts 
Narrated  of  the  early  Church,  in  Acts, 
Especially  those  which  state  the  primitive  way 
They  held  all  things  in  common  at  that  day, 
(A  dangerous  theory,  to  our  times  unsuited, 
And  which  the  Rector  had  himself  refuted,) 
Then  through  the  Epistles,  but  no  word  was  there 
From  which  to  canonize  a  Millionnaire, 
But  solemn  warnings,  ranking  wealth  and  stations, 
Not  with  God's  blessings,  but  the  World's  tempta 
tions, 


82  TWO      MILLIONS. 

And  flaming  words,  which,  like  the  sword  that 

turned, 

Each  way  before  the  gates  of  Eden,  burned 
With  the  swift  flash  of  vengeance,  and  foretold 
Garments  moth-eaten,  and  the  cankered  gold, 
And  treasures  heaped  together  for  the  days, 
Which  should  be  lurid  with  their  final  blaze  ! 

At  last  he  gave  it  up ;  then  thought  that  since, 
'Twas  not  the  Christian,  but  the  Merchant  Prince, 
He  was  to  praise  and  bury — it  was  best 
To  bring  his  virtues  to  the  easier  test 
Of  worldly  wisdom  ;  plant  its  fairest  laurel 
On  Firkin's  brow,  and  point  its  finest  moral. 
The  task  was  easy  now ;  the  Rector  took 
Once  more,  with  lightened  heart,  the  sacred  Book, 
Turned  back  the  leaves,  and  chose,  with  tact  sur 
prising, 
A  text  from  Proverbs,  about  early  rising ! 


TWO      MILLIONS.  83 

Thus,  through  the  fevered  hours,  that  busy  day, 
So  full  of  Firkin,  slowly  wore  away, 
Until  the  Night  came  down,  with  friendly  pity, 
To  breathe  its  blessing  o'er  the  troubled  City. 
And  while  the  Twilight  deepens,  far  and  near, 
One  word,  my  Reader,  in  your  private  ear — 
The  Will  was  left  untouched.     On  its  first  head, 
The  Funeral  Discourse  was  knocked  and  killed ; 
The  Last  Words,  taken  back,  were  all  unsaid ; 
The  sapient  Bar's  predictions  unfulfilled  ; 
The  dozen  Lawyers  left  without  their  fees ; 
And  ah1  the  Castles  in  the  air  which  reared 
Their  golden  towers  before  the  devisees, 
Were  mined   and   stormed,  blew  up  and  disap 
peared — 

One  little  fact  this  fearful  ruin  spread, 
To  tell  the  plain  truth,  Firkin  WASN'T  DEAD  ! 


V. 


Once  more,  a  single  moment,  and  the  scene 
Shifts  to  the  garret ;  but  no  Tragedy  Queen 
Discloses  now,  her  proud,  swift  vengeance  heaping 
Upon  her  victim — only  a  woman — weeping ! 
The  child  was  buried ;  its  rude  grave,  unstrewn 
With  wreath  or  flower,  unmarked  by  slab  or  stone, 
Was  closed,  and  she  was  in  the  world  alone. 
In  the  calm  twilight,  while  the  shadows  crept 
Gently  around,  as  if  to  soothe  her  grief, 
Over  her  drear,  parched  heart,  suddenly  swept 
A  shower  of  tears,  kind  Nature's  best  relief. 


TWO      MILLIONS.  85 

She  wept — and  for  a  moment  seemed  to  know, 
In  spite  of  Want,  the  luxury  of  Woe  ! 
She  wept — like  water  .from  the  riven  rock, 
In  the  dry  desert,  gushed  those  unchecked  tears ; 
A  moment  only,  for  a  loud,  long  knock, 
And  heavy  footstep,  at  the  door  she  hears, 
And  the  same  instant,  ere  the  sound  is  spent, 
The  Agent  enters.     Has  he  come  for  rent  ? 

He  was  good-humored,  though  a  Rent  Collector, 
Of  shiftless  tenants  oft  the  kind  protector, 
His  human  nature  he  did  not  forget, 
And  in  his  heart  there  was  some  room  to  let ! 
He  liked  the  lodger  on  the  topmost  floor, 
And  knew  her  for  a  lady,  long  before 
He  learned  the  truth,  by  listening  near  the  door, 
When  Firkin  was  within  (for  he  was  there, 
Though  all  unheeded  by  our  Millionnaire) ; 
And  now  he  came,  in  haste  and  out  of  breath, 
To  tell  the  story  of  the  sudden  death, 
And  the  torn  Will,  by  which,  he  thought,  perchance. 
She  too  might  share  the  great  inheritance ; 


86  TWO      MILLIONS. 

For  he  imagined  that,  in  fact,  she  stood 
Linked  to  the  Landlord  by  some  tie  of  blood. 
But  this  she  heeded  not,  nor,  even  heard  ; 
Her  sense  was  stunned  by  that  first  fearful  word. 
Could  it  be  so  ?    And  was  he  really  dead, 
Her  curse  still  resting  on  his  aged  head ! 
O,  fatal  passion  !     As  she  hoped  for  Heaven, 
His  cruel  wrongs  to  her  were  all  forgiven, 
For  though,  in  her  wild  grief,  on  him  she  cast 
The  heavy  forfeit  of  her  ruined  Past, 
And  of  her  blighted,  hopeless  Future,  yet 
Her  better  Nature  cancelled  all  the  debt ! 

Quickly  she  rose,  and  from  the  place  she  passed ; 
One  backward  glance  she  gave — it  was  the  last — 
At  the  dark  Tenement  house,  forlorn  and  cheer- 


One  eager  glance,  before ;  then,  swift  and  fearless, 
Through  deepening  night,  beneath  the  stars'  pure 

ray, 
With  rapid  footstep,  hurries  on  her  way. 


TWO      MILLIONS.  87 

Blessings  go  with  her !     Never,  by  pity  led, 
A  truer  heart  on  holier  errand  sped ; 
She  little  knows  what  sacred  honors  wait 
To  crown  her  brow,  beyond  the  unfolding  gate 
Through  which  she  passes,  from  her  low  estate 
To  her  high  mission ;  but  good  Angels  ask 
To  cheer  and  guide  her  in  her  noble  task ! 

And  now  she  stands  within  the  spacious  room, 
Where,  on  his  lonely  couch,  he  lies  in  state ; 
A  single  light  streams  through  the  silent  gloom, 
And  burns  above  him,  like  the  torch  of  Fate. 
The  house  is  silent,  for  the  troop  of  heirs 
Are  absent,  busied  with  their  new  affairs 
Which  Wealth,  though  distant,  shadows  with  its 

cares. 

The  frightened  servants,  left  alone  with  Death, 
Move    softly   round    and    speak   with   whispered 

breath ; 

The  dread  of  Apoplexy  and  the  Devil, 
Has  even  made  the  pompous  footman  civil ; 


88  TWO      MILLIONS. 

Rachel  had  entered  freely,  and  the  kind 
But  drowsy  housemaids,  willingly  resigned, 
At  her  entreaty,  the  sad  charge,  to  keep 
Watch  by  the  bedside  of  that  last,  long  sleep. 
They  left  her  there  with  him,  once  more  alone  ; 
But  oh,  how  changed,  since  those  few  hours  had 

flown; 

Then  all  was  scorn  and  hate  ;  now,  pure  and  warm, 
Love  keeps  its  vigil  by  that  stricken  form. 
She  clasps  his  heavy  hand,  she  bends  and  kneels ; 
How  deep  the  shade  that  o'er  her  senses  steals, 
For  Death,  still  following  in  one  beaten  track, 
With  each  new  sorrow  brings  the  old  griefs  back ; 
And  as  she  meekly  bows  her  weary  head, 
She  weeps  for  all  her  Lost  and  all  her  Dead  ! 

Look,  Rachel !     Look  !     Start  from  your  bend 
ed  knees ! 
Your  touch  has  thrilled  him  ;  look — he  stirs,  he 

sees ! 

Breathless,  she  watches.     Yes !  he  sees,  he  stirs, 
His  opening  eyes  are  fastened  upon  hers ! 


TWO      MILLIONS.  89 

Then  close  convulsive,  as  when  one  who  shakes 
A  frightful  dream  away,  and  wildly  wakes, 
Sees  its  worst  terror  waiting  by  his  side  ! 
Her  form ;  Tier  face ;  the  strange  sepulchral  gloom — 
Is  this  the  hour  of  vengeance — she  the  Guide 
To  light  his  footsteps  to  the  final  Doom ! 
Breathless,  she  watches.     Once  again,  his  glance 
Struggles  with  upward   gleam  from  that  strange 

trance ; 

But  now  its  dim  foreboding  meets  the  grace 
That  pours  upon  him  from  her  loving  face, 
To  calm  his  fear ;  once  more  his  eyelids  raise  ; 
He  clings  to  her  with  speechless,  lingering  gaze  ; 
One  long,  imploring  look,  as  if  to  say — 
"  What  horrid  Night  is  this  ?     Oh,  lead  me  back 

to  Day ! » 

She  led  him  back ;  from  that  dark,  dismal  night, 
A  Wreck  and  Ruin.     For  the  fearful  stroke 
Had  shattered  all  his  frame  and  left  its  blight 
On  all  his  senses.     Nevermore  they  woke 


00  TWO      MILLIONS. 

To  that  quick  vigor  which  before  he  prized 

As  all  of  life ;  broken  and  paralyzed, 

With  shrunken,  wasted  form,  he  draws  his  breath 

In  that  dim  Border  Land  'twixt  Life  and  Death. 

Yet  not  unblessed,  for  in  the  fatal  thrill 

Which  rent  his  spirit,  like  his  owrn  torn  Will, 

It  seemed  as  if  some  human  springs  which  lay, 

Unknown,  within  him,  hidden  far  away, 

Under  the  worthless  rubbish  of  his  wealth, 

Were  all  unlocked ;  and  now,  as  if  by  stealth, 

The  light  of  Heaven  creeps  through  his  tremulous 

sense, 
And  sheds  its  grace  on  his  late  penitence  ! 

She  leads  him  back  to  Day ;  no  hand  but  hers 
To  all  his  hourly  needs  administers  ; 
Far  from  the  town  she  guides  his  tottering  feet, 
And,  in  the  stillness  of  that  calm  retreat, 
From  her  sweet  voice  he  learns  the  alphabet 
Of  Truth  and  Duty,  and  his  lips  repeat 
The  prayers  of  childhood,  and  his  brow  is  wet 
With  the  baptismal  seal  wrhich  Love  has  set 


TWO       MILLIONS.  91 

Upon  its  furrows.     Still  to  her  he  clings, 
His  Guardian  Angel,  whose  o'ershadowing  wings 
Shelter  his  weakness,  while  her  steady  hand 
Upholds,  and  leads  him  towards  the  Better  Land ! 

His  wealth  remains ;  a  burden  and  a  care, 
But  cheats  no  longer,  with  its  empty  glare, 
His  spirit,  rescued  from  the  fatal  snare. 
On  her  he  heaps  it ;  grateful,  while  he  sees 
Her  hands  dispense  their  noiseless  charities. 
Her's  the  Two  Millions ;  but  how  poor  and  cheap, 
And  mean  and  worthless,  is  the  glittering  store, 
Beside  her  Treasures,  which  the  Heavens  keep, 
Whither  her  broken  Heart  has  gone  before  ! 
Whither,  in  all  her  night  of  toil,  she  turns, 
For  the  far  distant  dawning,  prays  and  yearns, 
And  while  each  deepening  shadow  round  her  falls, 
She  waits,  like  MAKY,  till  the  MASTER  calls ! 


ISTor  waits  alone.     Such  have  there  ever  been, 
Since  human  grief  has  followed  human  sin — 


92  TWO      MILLIONS. 

The  patient,  perfect  Women !     As  they  climb, 
With  bleeding  feet,  the  flinty  crags  of  Time, 
Not  for  the  praise  of  man,  or  earth's  renown, 
They  bear  the  cross  and  wear  the  martyr's  crown. 
Though    Queenly    medal,    stamped    with    Royal 

Heads, 

Their  humble  toil  to  endless  honor  weds ; 
Though,  like  a  bow  of  Hope,  their  fame  is  bent, 
From  side  to  side  of  each  broad  Continent ; 
And  pictured  Volume,  with  its  tinted  page, 
Bears  their  meek  features  to  the  coming  Age  ; 
A  higher  joy  their  gentle  spirits  reap, 
Where,  all  unknown,  their  silent  watch  they  keep, 
Far  from  the  echo  of  the  world's  applause, 
Through  sultry  noon,  or  midnight's  dreary  pause — 
Where  helpless  infants  gasp  their  parting  breath, 
Cradled  in  sorrow  and  baptized  with  Death  ; 
Or  strong  men,  tossing,  with  delirious  lips, 
In  fever-tempests  and  the  mind's  eclipse, 
Plunge  through  the  starless  storm,  like  foundering 

ships ; 


TWO      MILLIONS.  03 

Or  Old  Age,  shrinking  from  the  tyrant's  clutch, 
Feels,  through  the  darkness,  for  their  tender  touch — 
Watching  and  waiting,  till  the  rising  Morn 
Shall  greet  their  saintly  faces,  pale  and  worn 
With  the  long  vigil,  as  they  steal  away, 
Through  darkened  chambers,  at  the  dawn  of  day, 
Unloose  the  casement  to  the  early  air  ; 
Hail  its  pure  radiance  with  their  purer  prayer ; 
Drink  in  fresh  courage  with  its  quickening  breath ; 
Then  shut  the  sunlight  from  the  bed  of  Death, 
But  bear,  serenely,  to  the  sufferer's  side 
A  brighter  beauty  than  the  Morning-tide, 
Faith's  golden  dawning  wrhich,  from  heights  above, 
Transfigures  Toil  to  Joy !  Duty  to  Love  ! 
No  eye  beholding,  save  their  risen  Lord's, 
Who  sees  in  secret  but  in  sight  rewards ! 
Their  fairest  earthly  crown,  the  wreath  that  twines, 
Not  round  loud  Platforms,  or  proud  Senate  Domes, 
But  those  pure  Altars,  those  perpetual  Shrines, 
Which  grace  and  gladden  all  our  SAXON  HOMES  ! 

THE     END. 


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BERKELEY 

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